Thank you, K.

Neurodivergent K, as she prefers to call herself in her online writings (and I intend to respect that preference), recently posted this article concerning why people who have no intention of changing or even acknowledging that they have done wrong solicit forgiveness. This, in itself, would not be remarkable.

Thing is, my recent struggles to obtain the assistance I need to move to a location where I can

• obtain the medical care that I cannot really live without
• live a day without wanting to punch an incompetent idiot who cannot do a job that I know I can

have boiled over to a point. Before I explain the boiling over, I want to talk about the two points above because they directly challenge our concepts of whom should be let into the happy happy club we call “employable” and thus be given the golden key to the downstairs lavatory.

Now, I will be brief about the first point. Early this year, the lump I had been noticing in the side of my face that still happens to be there and feels very solid was confirmed to be an atypical and unidentified kind of cancer. If I were still living in the area surrounding Westmead Hospital, this cancer would be gone by now. It would leave a mark, no doubt, but it would have been extracted by now, and I would be recovering from the massive haze that general anesthesia often entails for months after the fact. That it is still there should tell you all you need to know about how accessible Queensland medical services generally are.

But the second point is one that continues to burn in my mind because it just goes to show how infinitely unsubstantiated the general Queenslander superiority complex is. I do not know what anyone else may think. But help me out here, people who have to do their own grocery shopping (yes, this description includes me too, I am being sarcastic). Let us go with a scenario. In this scenario, you are working the checkout and it is a slow day. One person comes to your counter. There is nobody behind or in front of him. It is an express aisle. He puts a Cool Bag on the counter (for those who do not know, this means a bag that is insulated, designed to carry cold perishables for a longer period without them going bad). He puts three two litre bottles of Pepsi Max, three two litre bottles of milk, and two small packs of white chocolate in front of you to be rung up, paid for, and bagged. Which of these do you put in the Cool Bag?

Well, the Queenslander checkout chick on this occasion thought the Pepsi Max bottles, and only the Pepsi Max bottles, would go in the Cool Bag. Seriously. Maybe she assumed I was putting this stuff in a car to be taken home, a false assumption for a number of reasons I will not get into here. But it just beggars belief. I mean, I am not a checkout chick, and never have been, so I do not imagine I know all of the ins and outs of the job. But I would have thought it was pretty self-evident that if a punk-looking, 200 pound man puts twelve litres of liquid on a counter to be rung up for a price, he would prefer it all be in the one strong bag to make carrying easier. Twelve litres of any liquid has quite a substantial weight, even by the standards of mid-level bodybuilders.

So far, I have detailed how Queenslanders have piss-poor infrastructure and even worse customer service. This, combined with their arrogance about the society they have created and how they believe people should look up to it as a shining example, makes me mad at them. The entirety of Scandinavia laughs mockingly at you, Cuntslanders.

There is, in fact, a good question to ask concerning how well they would cope if divested of their connection to the rest of the country.

In fact, now is a good time to talk about a hypothetical example. You see, Australia, unlike the vast majority of nations, has multiple islands and one big continent all to itself. The continent part, the mainland as its people call it, is entirely surrounded by water. This means that whilst people attempt to migrate to it in boats that are often barely seaworthy, the overwhelming majority of people who migrate to the country from overseas are able to afford a cross-continental journey, and thus usually are from the upper or upper-middle classes. Hence, migrants who are allowed to integrate into the nation of Australia tend to be doctors, lawyers, upper-level businessmen, and the like.

I mention this because I want to tantalise you with a little question. What would happen if the states and territories that make up the nation called Australia all told each other to fukk off and went their separate ways? Would each new nation inherit the strength of the old, just on a smaller scale? Or would we have six or seven new nations, each with an uneven and inequitable distribution of strengths?

In order to see what I mean, let us look at the nations that make up North America. Contrary to what you might think, Mexico is not South America. There are no less than twenty-three distinct nations in North America, although the Wikipedia entry concerning this collection of countries also includes Central America in its definition. But anyway, leaving out this important fact, let us just limit the comparison between Canada, the United States Of America, and Mexico. This is for a reason that will become important.

Now, the United States is a very rich and powerful nation, although its power in the 1950s absolutely dwarfs what it is today for reasons we will not go into here. Part of this has to do with the fact that the land that its founders stole from the previous settlements was very rich in natural resources. On top of that, prior governments made the best use of the country’s manpower in order to create a society that people wanted to be part of. Leaving aside the fact that this is fast fading due to the politics of our times, this description also applies to a greater and more varied extent to Canada, a land that takes better care of its own, but also has land noticeably less hospitable to the Human species.

Now, there are different aspects to every society, so I am just going to go with what people outside of Mexico hear concerning Mexico. Mexico in many ways resembles what the people in charge want for societies like the United States or Canada. That is, private businesses are allowed to run roughshod over one another and the citizenry, so long as the government gets their “share”. Now, I am not going to say a whole lot about Mexico as a society because a lot of what I hear from people who live there conflicts with what I often hear from external sources. But of all the migration that occurs in these three nations, the majority seems to be from Mexico to the United States.

There are two important sub-points for the point that I am trying to make here. One, a lot of the people (not all) who migrate from Mexico to the United States generally take all of the jobs that, as one impersonation of California governor Pete Wilson put it, white people are too cool to do themselves. I take this to mean the lowest of the low jobs, the lavatory cleaning jobs, the gardening jobs, the garbage collection jobs, and so on. Second, that the people who successfully migrate from Mexico to the United States represent an actual cross-section of Mexican society. That is the germaine point to this comparison of the different territories of Australia as nations. In order to properly compare nations or states, one must compare true cross-sections thereof. As Eastern Australian states go, Queensland is not comparable to Sweden, Norway, or even much of America. It compares more to places like Mexico.

Now, I have resided in three of the states that exist in Australia, and have visited another three. In this context, “states” also means the Australian Capital Territory, a small land mass within New South Wales that was basically divided into a territory partly to settle an argument between the three Eastern states concerning where the national capital should be. I am tempted to combine this place into New South Wales to simplify the whole thing, but I will not.

Now, when we split the country into a group of disparate countries, the question that is on my mind is how would Queensland fare in such a split? Granted, it has been a long time since I was in Melbourne, and my last stroll in Western Sydney was all too brief, but you would have to go back to a time before I was even born to see a Western Sydney whose infrastructure or transport was as poor as that of Brisbane to the North of what they call Roma Street. And considering that I am now North of thirty years old, that is a sad thing to say about the majority of a city that is the subject of so much talk-up by its citizenry.

So the question here, what sort of country Queensland would amount to in the event of the states splitting away and going it alone, can best be answered with comparisons to the Mexico that is often referenced in media. I think the best way to explain this is to talk about an email I received in one account from the lovely people at the Every Australian Counts campaign. Whilst I part ways with them in just about every important matter concerning my little sector of what they represent, one thing I am very much in agreement with them about… well, it actually consists of two things. One, Australia needs what is being called the National Disability Insurance Scheme like a male mammal needs a penis. When your nation falls behind America and comes dead last in the entire OECD for poverty levels amongst the disabled, that is a mark of shame comparable to tolerance of Holocaust denial. Second, when a state premier decides that spending a hundred and ten million dollars on facilities for horse racing is more important than fifty-five million dollars to get the state’s share of this scheme working, that says a lot about the state. Not one bit of it good.

My mother, however, has said and done things now that prove to me that she is no better than my male parental unit in terms of things like this. It is one thing to be on the defensive when your son is telling you that he does not want his male parental entity around because that male parental entity’s behaviour makes him want to knock their head off. But to simply proclaim “you were never abused or neglected as a child” is not on. One, simply sitting back with your thumb up your arse whilst medical professionals with bad intent are having their way with your son throughout his childhood is neglect. You can call it something else to your heart’s content. When someone abuses my son this way, on the other hand, I consider doing anything other than making them stop, making them terrified to even think about trying it again, neglect. So fukk you, basically. Two, when your child is sitting in the back of the car during a trip he is an involuntary passenger on with you, you stop for a second and get out for reasons lost to time, drive off, find yourself with a flattening tire, and respond to his stating that he is sorry with screams of abuse and top-of-lung screamed accusations of getting out (in the rain) and letting the air out of the tire (something he does not know how to do without slashing it, which he might not have the strength for at that age), what do you call that? Love and caring? No, mother dear, it is abuse. And if you want to fantasise that I was not being abused or neglected in this environment, then I do not want to know you anymore. How does it feel to know that a son who wanted to tell you how sorry he is that he was ever born now despises you just as much as everyone else in the mess?

(This, by the way, is not an isolated example.)

So my mother is basically in the unfortunate position of having a son who refers to everyone who voluntarily lives in the territory he is ensconced in as “Cuntslanders”, and fantasising about using means the like of which Marvel characters would kill for to enact their genocide. Now, having said all of that, I am putting this up for public consumption in order to tell her one thing. You can still do the right thing. Help me leave this place full of assholes who seriously think I should be grateful to be wondering when my current residence is going to start making me cough blood. Do that, and you need never, ever, hear from me again. Because if I continue to reside in a state that I have expressed a major desire to leave repeatedly over numerous years, this is going to get ugly. As in during my earlier teenage years, but far worse (possibly fatal) ugly. Yes, I am telling you that I will kill people if you continue to stonewall me about leaving Cuntsland. And do not give me that bullshit trying to deflect me with negationist speech about consequences. The consequences of living in this house and state might entail starting to cough up blood and a need to live in an iron lung for the rest of my life. Consequences happen to you, too, bitch. And I intend to make them just as ugly for you as they will be for me. More so, in fact.

As as Mark Ruffalo says so well during The Avengers, why do we not do this the easy way. You are trying to make this hard for me. Thus, you are making me angry. And the time is rapidly running out where my anger will be the kind you seem to like.