The saddest place in the world. (NSFW language)

My buddy looks at me and he says something about Comic Con, how there was this guy there selling beer to everyone. He was tall, dark-haired, with slender proportion. Mexican or Indian descent, with that special tan that lets you know he was not a True American. His helpful smile let you know he was lying to you. His eyes had sunken into his skull, leaving deep chasms not unlike the deep spaces under my brow when I turn my head down. He says this guy looked like the type who just spent his whole life trying to fix his emotional problems with substance abuse. He tried everything. He ran the gamut of Hunter S. Thompson impressions and came up short. After trying everything, he resolved to wallow in his own misery and became consumed by it. In time, his physical form came to reflect his own self-destruction, an ongoing and endless suicide. I said no, that’s not it at all. He’s miserable because he’s selling beer at Comic Con. Can you even imagine anything sadder than that?

[If you choose to read past this, be warned: it sucks. I was drunk and my creativity only lasted one quarter as long as I wanted it to.]

NYCC-2013-edited

Look at these pathetic souls.

The self-brutalization of substance abuse is milk and honey in comparison to such a state. Look at them. They’re all smiling but it’s only a thin facade. In reality, these are long lost souls battling with themselves to retain some sort of human identity even as they’ve become mired in a new and terrifying world which has long lost its humanity. And yet, brewers at Comic Con, they’ve engaged with and therefore straddle the lines between two incredibly, increasingly, now indelibly vapid subcultures with imaginary narratives of complexity and cultural superiority. They must tread that border between the base appeals and bland commercialization of one group, and the pointless experimentation and pretension to high culture of the other group. They must, somehow, talk to the overweight libertarian with another face than the one with which they have just addressed the underweight vegan.

These odds, clearly, are fucking insurmountable. The dialectic possibilities of their position alone make my cock rock hard, as the contradictions that must be embodied to do what they do might be innumerable. Worse yet, however, is what else the Comic Con Beer Mogul must deal with:

Akuma is sad as shit.

Akuma is sad as shit.

If the Comic Con Beer Mogul’s is a place of endless despair, the cosplayer’s lot in life is at once less sorrowful, yet more pathetic. The cosplayer’s motivations, like the religious extremist or the schizoid prophet, are complex and perhaps impossible to summarize. And nothing, of course, is more uncomfortable than an unwilling subjection to the whims of a deranged exhibitionist. Yet this unwilling subjection, that enduring of an anti-feminist but pro-gamer verbal screed, those horrible band recommendations, are what the Comic Con Beer Mogul must live by. This existence, no doubt, is the worst imaginable.

Had the Comic Con Beer Mogul any sense left in his now decrepit mind (wasted from years of neglect), they would have gone down the path of substance abuse and would now be lying in a bleeding pool of their own blissful oblivion. Had the Beer Mogul any regard for his own well-being or sanity he would have joined a gang, or gone to war, or stuck a syringe full of air in his neck, or blown his head off, or overdosed, or undergone chemical castration, or undergone ritual castration, or trepanned away his frontal lobe, or taught a Kindergarten class. Indeed, with his sheer force of personality, evinced by his clinging on to human life in that non homo terrae of Comic Con, any of the above noble pursuits would have been a fitting end for his sheer will to self-destruct.

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