What do I care?
What do you care?
Gna ko gortzit hetevitz.
Go after your own work.
These are the Confuse-ian maxims of the people who live in Glendale, that strain of regressed human called Homo Fucktardicus.
Life to H. Fucktardici means finding a good job, buying a house, and raising a family. OK, fine. Except, then, life becomes the slowly rotting-in-the-meaningless-repetition of the jobs that they've found, the slowly-rotting-in-the-terrifyingly-empty-wide-spaces of the McMansions that they've bought, and the progressively chronic alienation of the members of the family that they've raised, as they watch helplessly. There are people who escape this, except they are like Mad Max persevering in the desert of a post-Apocalyptic world. And that's no way to live.
We Armenians are convinced that the path to a good life is having money. Sure, money helps--alot. But there has to be something more than money, and in Glendale there isn't. Live here for a while, and I guarantee you than you will start feeling like something is missing. What is missing is the life that fanatically enforced rules of behavior necessary for efficient production kills. They turn you into a machine, and in return they give you a house--except you have to take time off spending with family and friends to mainatain that house, and you, after years of working away from them, loose touch. That's the Glendale formula: Shut up and work! Shut up and eat! Shut up and Enjoy!
It's a big problem. Really. If only H. Fucktardici would admit that there is a problem. But they don't. They don't admit it because if they did it would be too overwhelming. They've been rotting in peace for so long that to now arrest the rotting-in-peace would be too difficult a task for them. It would be akin to having to take their after-work fat asses soaking in a comfortable bath of scented warm water and emersing them in an--ice bath. Just like kicking a heroin habit. Comfort is the answer in the absence of meaning for H. Fucktardicus.
Indeed, H. Fucktardici are junkies, except in a humiliatingly paradoxical sort of way. Because what they think makes them normal, living a comfortable life in a big house with all the luxuries that they need, is exactly what makes them abnormal, people who think that the purpose of life is comfortable oblivion extended for as long as it can be extended--and that is exactly what junkies think, except junkies are more honest: they do it directly and get a far better rush.
If you ever really want to know the true meaning of indz inch, talk to a junky. I've known junkies in my life, and I can tell you that they really, really, really don't give a damn. To them, there is only one purpose in life: the comfort of heroin, the regression to the womb. Nothing else matters. They could be sitting waiting to become the next sacrifice in an Aztec ritual where they pull your intestines out of your ass, tie it to a stick, and set it on fire, and the junkies wouldn't give a damn as long as they got to stay high.
There is only one other class of human that can match the complete indifference of junkies, and that is the class of bitter old men who've suffered enough. They, too, really don't give a damn. They, too, can look at a bloody car accident and get more caught up in the carnage than the tragedy, but not much more, because not even the carnage is so interesting to them. Maybe they'd say, "Oh, that's so sad," because that is what is expected of them, but then they'll turn around and walk away, back to the bed, back to comfort. Junkies and old, old men are respectively representatives of active and the passive hedonism in that sense. The only real difference between one type of Glendale resident and another type of Glendale resident.
Because Glendale is all about hedonism, which is alright in a sense, except in Glendale, among other things, there is a weird kind of liberal-democratic hedonism, which is to say hedonism that likes to, on top of everything else, enjoy itself through a hypocritical, pseudo-moral lense, even as it chants its mantra: indz inch? If you can believe that such a thing is possible: to assert your morality, even as you say that you don't give a damn. It is an amazing feat, so let me explain.
Saying I don't give a damn while at the same time saying I care about ethics clearly puts a person in a bind. The miraculous Glendalian philosophical feat in undoing this Gordian knot that lets Glendalians conquer, erm, "Asia"-in-the-form-of-a-McMansion is to explain it this way: By taking responsibility for putting myself in a state of witless, shitless, brainless state of comfort, I spare other people from the responsibility of putting me in a state of witless, shitless, brainless state of comfort.
See how that works? See how "I don't care" in the perverted logic of Glendale becomes the pinnacle of civilization and an act of courage? It's really rather amazing.
All of which is why the drug of choice for this indz inch culture isn't heroin, but Xanax and its relatives. Heroin, after all, takes some balls to do. You can't get your Armenian doctor, brimming with understanding and sympathy that they are, to prescribe you heroin, but you can get him to prescribe you Xanax. The way it works out in this American life, taking a drug that gives you a spiritual orgasm of pleasure isn't OK, but taking a drug that severs the sinew attaching your soul to the world, making you simply indifferent--without causing pleasure--is reasonable. With the former drug you'd be tempted to sit on ass and drool, but with the latter one, Xanax, you can continue to go to work.
And that is essentially what H. Fucktardicus is: A worker and a consumer of garbage, and a rather stupid, obedient one.