Goblins

They’re everywhere.

They serve you coffee and lunch at the diner. They’re blocking the aisles at the grocery store.

They’re receptionists at any business you enter. They’re nurses at the local hospital. They’re the primary school teachers. They’re the librarians.

And they’re female. A few months ago I noticed a big spike in orcs, the lumbering males tottering in heels and prostitute clothes with their hair in pigtails and their feet straining the seams of fishnets.

But the female goblins are overtaking them.

Most of them are enormously fat. Not overweight. Fat enough that you can hear them struggling to breathe. As they order the two-person meal at the local restaurant (while overfeeding their children so they turn into goblins, too). This morning one of them took up the whole aisle at the corner store, piling Combos, Starbucks sugar drinks, and bags of Funyuns into her arms until half the pile tumbled to the floor.

It. . .she. . .turned around and gave me a fright. A Max Factor pallid face with Sexy Corpse makeup. The thick, overdrawn black eyeliner that emphasized the reptilian slit-lidded expression they all have. Goblins never look at anything; they side-leer at it without ever fully opening their eyes. I expected a nictitating membrane to flicker over her eyeball.

Two days ago a lesbian goblin family was seated next to me at a restaurant. The “mothers” were each at least 350 pounds. They could have been anywhere from 22 to 35; once a face is that fat all lines and signs of true age disappear.

One of them had Harry Potter tattoos all over her neck. Both of them had half-shaved heads and piercings in all the parts of the face and neck that look most painful and least attractive. I could hear them snuffling as they breathed. Do not think I insult or joke. That’s how fat they were. Hard-to-breathe fat. And their poor daughters under 10 were already busting the seams of their cheap and tacky age-inappropriate clothes. Goblin mothers make sure their children look like them.

A goblin passed me in the hall on my way to an appointment the other day. Enormously overweight as usual, but this time in service of trying to obscure that she was not the man she was clearly trying to claim she was. Male pattern baldness on a woman barely 25 by appearance. Wallet on a chain, grungy jeans, “soul patch” and peach fuzz on her face. She only “passed” at a distance because of her excessive weight that obscured the female skeleton inside.

Dead eyes. All of them have dead eyes.

There are two main types of goblin where I live: trailer park prostitute or “trans man.” They’re either slathered in whore makeup and wearing clothes designed to ensure the slipping out of their breasts, buttocks, and rolls, or they’re “trans men.”

A goblin was trying and failing to open the business suite bathroom down the hall from my studio. From a distance, I assumed it was a young woman from the party suite down the hall. Mais non. This was a “man.”

She stood 4 foot, ten inches. Approximately 85 pounds. Extremely narrow shoulders and bird-like torso. Obviously wide, female hips. Wife-beater and jeans, making sure to feature the “manly” straggling armpit hair. And a voice an octave lower than my bottom-range baritone. A slow-vibrating rubber band inside a tiny tin can; that’s what it sounds like.

Young women are in a very bad way where I live. They seem to believe they have only two choices in life: whore goblin or trans goblin. Being a normal human is not on the menu.

Ten years ago I would have seen the occasional goblin and said to myself internally, “Jeez. I hope she gets help.” Today, I feel nothing sympathetic. I feel sickened. I feel my skin crawling. My anxiety ramps up and all I can think is “get away as fast as you can. Pretend you don’t see her. Walk out of this store.”

Because they’re everywhere. And they think people like me are the problem. Normal people are the sick ones. Normal people are “doing harm” to them. They live in a world of total conceptual inversion.

For someone who has experienced as many mental illnesses as I have, you’d think I’d be more “compassionate,” wouldn’t you? You’d be wrong, but not for the reasons you think.

I didn’t get better mentally and then “pull the ladder up behind me.” I got better mentally and noticed that no one was following me on the rungs below. There was no point in leaving the ladder for the next person, or holding out a boosting hand, because no one wants it now.

Unless it’s to chase the normie up and push him off the top.

The goblins are a form of psychological pollution. They make me, and every somewhat sane person around them, a little bit sicker every day.

I resent them. I don’t care about their problems. Not anymore. I want them out of my face. I want them off the streets, out of the classrooms. I want their children taken away from them.

They wear their mental sickness on the outside, and they practically taunt passersby with it. Why else do you think they present themselves this way? You think they’re “dressing for themselves?” No person on earth, ever, under any circumstances, chooses their sartorial look “for themselves.” Clothes, makeup, and body carriage are advertising signals. They are for us, the audience on the street.

Well, I don’t want what they’re selling. I don’t want to see their eating disorder, their Borderline instability, their lust, or their narcissistic cunning, any more than I want to see any other flasher. These women are the female equivalent of the creep on the bus who opens his trench coat to the girl across the aisle and smirks. They just use their psychiatric disease instead of their genitals to do it.

For now. It won’t be long until it’s full-vag on display in reverse underwear that have cutouts where privacy panels used to be.

If you don’t live in a blue city in a blue state, you may be tempted to think I exaggerate. Some of you won’t believe what I’m recounting. You’ll think I’m padding the numbers for drama. Because you don’t actually believe this is the world we live in, because if you believed it, you’d have to acknowledge some things you really don’t want to acknowledge. It would upset the moral and intellectual applecart you’ve relied on your whole life.

This is what it’s like in blue American cities today. This is new normal. It’s a psychiatric freak show that you are not allowed to notice is a psychiatric freak show. It is the Twilight Zone episode “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” You are the normal, attractive person surrounded by people with literal pig faces calling you an ugly monster. You’re in the upside down.

This is the real pandemic.