His Mind Is A Whirlwind Of Thoughts

IG: raulfelix275

He mounts his motorcycle,
Blood heavy with alcohol and weed.
He has no care for the stupidity of his actions.
His mind has gone to a dark place.
He wonders about the point of it all.
Whether it will be better to just let go.

He races down the freeway,
Zooming in between cars,
Keeping his iron steed steady.

His mind is a whirlwind of thoughts.
His usual sweet, friendly, and joyful demeanor,
Drowned in whiskey.
Anger, hatred, frustration, jealousy, rage,
Pain, loss, heartbreak, sadness,
Now reign supreme over all his emotions.
The darkness he buries deep inside,
Is now maliciously intent on destroying him.

The wind blows the tears from his face.
At the top of his lungs he curses those who have wronged him,
The events which have left permanent scars on his heart and soul,
He raises his left hand up and flips the world the bird.
He is free.

He pulls up to his home,
Kicks down the kick stand, dismounts, and lovingly caresses her.
There are no ghastly consequences tonight for his recklessness.
“Thanks for getting me home alive, babe,” he says to his beauty.
His temperament is cooled by her.
He lies down on his bed and passes out.

~Raul Felix

Read: In A Park On The Shores Of Lake Michigan
Read: Shards Of Broken Glass Scattered On The Kitchen Floor
Read: Another Night Wasted Getting Wasted

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12 Things Only Veterans Of The Global War On Terrorism Will Understand

SGT Brian Kohl, 55th Combat Camera, US Army

SGT Brian Kohl, 55th Combat Camera, US Army

There are some things about the deployment experience that will cause a veteran to look off into the distance as he quietly remembers those days in vivid detail. There other are things that he will totally forget until something random sparks his memory and causes him to shake his head at the silliness of it all. This is a list dedicated to those little nuances about being deployed that you can’t experience in the real world.

1. The Smell of Iraq

One of the most significant moments a soldier has is when he gets his first nose full of the thick Iraqi air. It’s a smell that’s nearly impossible to find anywhere else in the world. A combination of burned garbage, desert heat spoiling everything, spilled sewage, and the Cradle of Civilization getting old and senile.

2. Rip-Its

An off-brand energy drink that came to be the go-to caffeine infusion for many a troop before a mission. Got the call to go hit an objective? As you head toward the ready room, you’ll always make to sure to take a quick stop at the MWR (Morale, Welfare, Recreation) facility in order to grab one or four 6-ounce cans and put them in your cargo pockets. You never know if this is going to be a simple three-hour mission or an all-nighter. Best to carry a full battle load.

3. Pirated Movies From the Haji Bazaar

Through the generations, boredom has always been a major enemy for the man on the ground to fight off. With the nonexistent copyright laws of the Middle East, American troops have found themselves able to procure full series of their favorite TV shows for only a few bucks thanks to enterprising Hajis eager to make a semi-honest buck. Whole squads and sections will partake in marathon viewings of The OC, Scrubs, Lost, and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. They’ll form educated and fully developed opinions and theories on the show’s characters. It becomes a huge annoyance to get called up for a mission in the middle of a particularly juicy episode.

4. Piss Bottles

You’re en route to a mission in a helicopter or a Stryker. Those Rip-Its you drank are going right through you, and you’re not even close to getting to your objective. Since you ain’t no cherry, you came prepared for this event. You take out the Gatorade bottle that also doubles as your spitter. You unbutton the front of your pants, slightly hunch over, shove your dick in the bottle, and take a piss that fills it to the top. You seal the top. As you get on target, you toss it into pile of garbage on the side of the road. There’s an off chance that a Haji kid will think it’s just yellow Gatorade and drink it.

5. Care Packages Filled With Useless Shit No One Wants

Teaching a rather insightful lesson of good intentions does not always equal good execution, the MWR facilities will at times be packed with care packages from well-intentioned people eager to get rid of their useless shit. The occasional care package will have goodies such as fun-sized Snickers, Hot Cheetos, Gatorade powder packs, and other shit you actually want. Others will contain generic Halloween candy, pocket Bibles, crappy disposable Bic razor blades, some cheap electronic mini-game that breaks five minutes after you start playing it, and a coupon book that expired six months ago.

6. Unintentionally Grim Cards From Kids

A good way for a kindergarten teacher to fulfill her patriotic duty and kill an hour of class time while she nurses her hangover is to have her students draw and write up cards in crayon to send to GIs overseas. The GIs will receive a crude drawing of stick figure soldiers shooting at shit and tanks that also have wings while shooting out flames and random stars plastered throughout with captions such as “Tank U for my Fredum Solgier, pleeze don’t lose yor legs,” or “Kill people with towels on their heads. USA!”

7. Rushing To The Chow Hall After A Mission

“Fuck, I’m starving. If this mission isn’t over soon, there is no way we are going to make it back in time for mid-rats. Fuck, today is Mexican Monday. My favorite!” many a Joe has thought to himself while on target. Chow is always on a soldier’s mind. In fact, having hot chow is one of life’s pleasures he’d never willingly miss. Since this is the Global War on Terrorism, there is a surprising amount of food variety cooked by cheap Filipino and Ethiopian labor.

“Holy shit, we have five minutes before chow closes,” Joe will announce to his buddies as they get back to the compound. Covered in sweat, dirt, and mud, the whole platoon will rush to the chow hall to ensure they don’t have to wait until breakfast to get their next meal.

8. Hard Drive Full of Porn

Unless you’re in a unit with females, you’re not going to be getting any pussy whatsoever if you’re deployed. Yet you’re a young, testosterone-filled freedom machine with a sack full of semen that needs to be released at regular intervals. Advances in technology have not only made quality porn cheap and accessible for the masses, it’s quite common for a soldier to have a whole external hard drive full of porn geared toward his own deviant desires. With his laptop and jack-shack you make out of your bunk bed with some extra sheets, you’re ready to give your privates some hands-on action. Or if times are truly desperate, you can always go jerk in the Port-A-Potty.

9. The Deployment-Eight

Just because you aren’t getting any pussy doesn’t mean you won’t see females. If fact, you’ll see them throughout the installation doing various jobs. You’ll see the occasional prize specimen of femininity, but more often you’ll see chicks you wouldn’t fuck with your buddy’s dick. A couple of months of not having any sexual contact with females will have you creating elaborate fantasies about that one Air Force E-6 you always see at the chow hall with the buck teeth, horrible acne, and a totally flat chest. Yet she does have a big ass that even a military uniform can’t hide. Oh, what you wouldn’t give to have those cellulite-covered ass cheeks bouncing off your dick.

10. Overhearing Your Buddy Argue With Their Significant Other On The Phone

“You’re a fucking stupid cunt. I’m going to fucking kill you and that motherfucker when I get back home,” you’ll casually overhear one of your buddies say to his significant other as you use an Army computer to Facebook-stalk chicks you used to like in high school. Since you’re doing some rather important stuff for national security, all forms of communication you have with the rest of the world are being monitored. This means that there is very little privacy when it comes to telephone conversations that everyone in the room can hear.

11. The Smell of Haji

The locals have a uniquely foul body odor to them. Whether it’s because they live in a shit hole and can’t shower regularly, their diet, or other social/economical factors that we don’t understand, there is no denying it. You can smell a local from ten to fifteen feet away. Wearing leather gloves is mandatory on missions, so it helps out when you have to handle a Haji from point A to B. Their smell will funk up your gloves for a day or two.

12. Scraggly, Feral Dogs of Various Breeds

There are many feral dogs of nearly any kind of breed you can think of roaming the streets of Iraq. They’ll travel in packs digging through rubble and garbage looking for something to eat. You’ll see little Yorkshire Terriers who answered the call of the wild running alongside German Shepherds and Labrador Retrievers. Most of the dogs are not pure breeds and are so deeply intermixed that you can’t even begin to guess what type of breed they are. The dogs will usually avoid American troops, making them smarter than your average terrorist.

~Raul Felix

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Four Years Of Hell: College V. The Army

Co-created with Lance Pauker & Ella Ceron

Which path should you choose: going to college or joining the military? Young people who’ve asked themselves this question have received a plethora of different answers. Both options are viable in helping you set yourself up for success in adulthood. Just like anything else in life, it’s what you make of it, and no two experiences are exactly the same. To help you understand the lifestyle differences between the two paths, two college graduates and one veteran will share with you a year-by-year breakdown of their experiences through those very special four years.

Freshman Year:

Lance Pauker: 

There was a lot of pressure to meet people, but at first you didn’t really know how. So you just stuck to the same three questions, consisting of things like, “Where are you from?,” “What’s your major?,” and, “Are you secretly the son of an oil tycoon?”

Overall, I think I was a little too overwhelmed to really process what was going on—there’s so much coming at you at once. You’ve got the sudden freedom, you’ve got these new people in your life that you’re suddenly good friends with, and you’ve got professors constantly asking you if you did the reading. If there’s anything you figure out quickly, it’s that nobody really does the reading.

Ella Ceron:
I went to college 3,000 miles away from my hometown and was only really able to do so on a full-ride academic scholarship. It was terrifying being in a new city—though I’m from a large city, moving to New York was still a huge change. It was weird living with so many other people my age in one building all of a sudden, and I had five roommates in a very small three-bedroom/one-communal-area dorm. There was a lot of pressure on keeping my grades up, especially when what I thought I wanted my major to be proved much more difficult to maintain, and I had to take a good, hard look at whether I wanted to pursue that dream without my scholarship or change my course. I went home for the summer after that year and very desperately didn’t want to go back. I was homesick, miserable, hadn’t found a group of friends I felt very intrinsically close to, and felt all-around awkward.

Raul Felix:
Your first year in the Army is basically where you get your teeth kicked in. Everything you were, did, and knew no longer seems relevant. You’re going to do shit the way the Army wants you to do it. From your drill sergeants in Basic Training all the way to your team leaders and squad leaders in your first unit, you’re expected to be a sponge for knowledge and to shut your fucking mouth.

Life was simple in a way: You trained hard and worked long hours during the week and got drunk as fuck in the barracks with your buddies on the weekends watching movies, playing video games, and bitching about your miserable existence and how you should have gone to college. Even if you started off as a cavalier, gleaming-eyed young man full of glee and hope, the aura of massive amounts of testosterone, cynicism, and sexual frustration was prevalent. Back then MySpace was the main social network and you’d see your friends posting pictures of themselves at college parties surrounded by hot chicks, while all you had was Internet porn and a bottle of Jack to keep you company. Since most of us were under 21 and none of us were locals, meeting chicks was very rare indeed. Luckily, a few months in, I met a great girl through MySpace that went to a local university and we developed a long-term fuck-buddy relationship that gave me something to look forward to other than drinking myself into oblivion. My cousin and I were in the same battalion but different companies. He had already been the in Army for a little over two years at that point. We spent Christmas and New Year’s together drinking heavily in the barracks watching movies as we waited to deploy.

Sophomore Year:

Screen Shot 2014-06-25 at 9.31.22 AM

Spc Tiffany Fudge, US ARMY

Lance Pauker:
An article I once read on this pretty great website called Thought Catalog (def check it out if you get the chance) referred to sophomore year as “The Year Of The Wise Fools.” I think this summation is spot-on. You’re slowly gaining a sense of who you are and how you fit within the general landscape, but you’re still, relatively, an idiot. On a personal level, the majority of cool college stories I have occurred during sophomore year.

I feel like sophomore year represents the time in which you begin to move toward that thing you really want to pursue—you’ve finally figured out which people to acknowledge and which people to slowly start ignoring, so you’re finally ready to learn on your terms. Think of it as making your way through a crowded and cramped bar and then finally reaching the cool outside area. You light up a cig, talk about how you really shouldn’t be lighting up a cig, and finally get a chance to think.

Ella Ceron:
I had a summer job in Los Angeles during the summer break and was lucky enough to transfer to a New York outpost of the same company, so I was juggling four and five courses a semester with 30-to-40-hour work weeks. Though my classes were being paid for by the school, I had to take out loans for my housing and had to fund my own food, clothes, and anything else I wanted. It was a lot, but I was able to interact with people who were already living and working in the “real world” and I realized that there was so much beyond the papers and assignments that I had been so stressed about during the previous year. I still didn’t have as many friends as college is always portrayed in the movies, but I let myself completely fill up my schedule so that I was either working or studying seven days a week. In retrospect, that was the stupidest idea ever, but it helped me cope with the loneliness.

Raul Felix:
To my bitter disappointment, that deployment I spent doing a support role for the line guys. We pushed out supplies from the main base to all of the platoons scattered throughout the country. When we did leave the base, it was doing detainee escorts where we would take captured Hajis from one prison to another throughout the country on Chinooks and Blackhawk helicopters. I saw the vastness of Iraq by the air—from our remote outpost in Al Qa’im to the major cities of Baghdad, Mosul, and Tikrit. I also fucked up a lot that deployment and made nearly every single stupid mistake a cherry private could make to the frustration and wrath of my leadership. That deployment I was hit by how real this war was—my cousin’s team leader and squad leader both got killed in action.

We deployed in three-months-there and six-months-back cycles. We came back stateside and I began to take all the lessons learned from that deployment into the next training cycle, determined to be less of a fuck-up. The lifestyle of training hard, drinking hard, and fucking hard took firm hold again. Before one knew it, it was time to go to Afghanistan. Arriving at the beginning of the blistering Afghan winter, me and a dozen other Batt Boys were tasked to man a secret prison that contained high-value targets that were freshly captured off of objectives by the line guys. It pissed me off because I didn’t join the Army to stay on the base; I joined to go on fucking missions. We spent Thanksgiving and Christmas there, and I spent New Year’s Eve 2007 on an airplane ride back to the US. Luckily we didn’t lose anyone on that deployment.

Junior Year

Screen Shot 2014-06-25 at 10.15.55 AM

KT King

Lance Pauker:
I went abroad the first semester of my junior year. Like everyone else who went abroad, I had such an incredible time that I spent the following semester acting superior to everyone who didn’t share the same new life experience as me.

Returning to college after spending a semester traveling all over Europe felt like going from an Elton John concert to an Austin Mahone concert. No disrespect to my man Austin; he just fits the reference.

Ella Ceron:
When everyone else went abroad, I moved out of the dorms and into my first apartment—a really crappy walkup that was about a 20-minute walk away from the campus. I still filled my schedule with work and school and tried to romanticize how utterly threadbare my life was. My roommate bought our couch with a bottle of Belvedere, I slept on a yoga mat before I managed to get a bed, and I wrote my papers on a busted laptop with an old radiator whistling nearby. This all sounds like something out of the New York warehouse episodes of Glee, and I deeply wish I wasn’t as proud of the bohemian bullshit I let myself dive into. I still worked 40 hours a week, and I really liked my job, but that began to happen at the expense of shirking off a lot of my papers and assignments, only to make up excuses to get extensions and not fail out of my classes. It was a wakeup call that being an adult is a lot more about work than it is about the aesthetic, and sometimes you have to decide which is more important to you in the moment and which is more important to you in the long run.

Raul Felix:
By that time, I was comfortable in the Army. I wasn’t a big fuck-up anymore, so my leaders usually stayed off my ass. I knew exactly what I needed to do, what my job was, and what I could and couldn’t get away with. I turned 21 that year, went to my first bar in Seattle, and subsequently got kicked out of my first bar.

We were set to deploy again that summer, and a few days before deployment I found my grandmother had died. My cousin and I went to her funeral and missed out on the deployment. We stayed on Rear Detachment, which meant we pretty much had half-days all the time and spent much of that time drinking heavily and attempting to find some tail, mostly unsuccessfully. One morning, news came that one of the men in our company had been killed in action. A few weeks later, another one had been killed.

Senior Year

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Spc Justin Young, US ARMY

Lance Pauker:
Senior year was the crossroads between living in an apartment that should probably be condemned and being “adult” enough to drink something other than watered-down Keystone Light. I found that I probably made the most friends in college senior year—just like senior year of high school, nobody really cares about the social distinctions they spent the past three years maintaining. People are finishing up sports, slightly embarrassed to have been a part of their Greek organization, and overall too consumed with the postgrad unknown to care about how sick Freddy’s party was. You also realize how much of an unrealistic bubble the American college experience is. While I definitely got a ton out of my four years, you certainly realize how alarming the disconnect is. If college prepares you for the working world, then playing baseball prepares you for running a marathon. They’re both sports, but that’s pretty much it.

Ella Ceron:
By senior year, I was totally immersed in my job, and a big chunk of me didn’t think I really NEEDED my degree anymore—but then I realized that the job trajectory I was on wasn’t the right fit after all. I was working 60 hours a week, could afford a lot of really nice things, made friends with my coworkers, and was acting the part of the adult—but I just wasn’t happy. I had to force myself to put any effort into my classes, because I’d saved a lot of the easy, fun classes for senior year, knowing full well I’d have senioritis. The caveat in that, however, was that I was constantly reminding myself that if I could do okay by coasting along, imagine how much better I could do by working hard. Ultimately, I realized that the degree I eventually chose meant more to me than the job I’d had all through college and that I not only wanted to actually pursue using my degree, but that I’d be disappointed if I didn’t.

Working through college was a very important part of my experience, because it gave me a crash course in the wild world of money and having an apartment and adulthood and adult friends, but I was worn really thin throughout those four years and wouldn’t necessarily suggest you try to do everything all at once if you don’t absolutely need to. If I could do it all over again, and if I had the means, I would definitely have not worked as much as I did, even though I don’t regret how hard I worked. College is a time for discovery, and sometimes I wonder if I was too burdened with bills and being a grown-up to do that then—but now I’m making up for it by discovering myself along the way now.

Raul Felix:
Another training cycle started. The same dance all over again. I had calmed down my bar-hopping since I had gotten a girlfriend, but it didn’t mean I still didn’t drink to my heart’s content. Working, drinking, and hanging out with my girl was all I contented myself with during that training cycle. It had all become second nature at that point. We took off for the sandbox again. This time I drove Strykers through the streets of Mosul on hundreds of direct action raids. I was happy because at last I was doing the cool guy shit I’ve been training for. In typical poetic fashion, my girlfriend broke up with me. This was costliest and most heart-wrenching deployment during my time in battalion. We lost three great men all within a month of each other.

It’s a strange feeling being in a bar when only 48 hours earlier you were in the middle of the streets of Mosul pulling security. I was more than eager to get out of the Army. I had acquired an annoyed and hate-filled attitude toward my job, but I knew I had one deployment left before I was free at last. I bought a motorcycle and developed a passion for motorcycle travel when my buddies and I took a trip around Washington State.

In my final deployment to Iraq, I was driving Strykers like I did before. Though we did go on quite a few missions, it was way slower than the previous high-operations tempo deployment. The war was winding down. There was a stretch where we went two weeks without a single mission. Books, video games, and TV shows were how you kept your sanity from the boredom. I came back with only a month left on my enlistment. One month later, I hopped on my motorcycle to travel the US, leaving behind the red-fenced compound that took me in during my most formative years and forged me into a man.

~Raul Felix

You can read more of my writing at Thought Catalog.

Becoming A Beast May Help You Win The Beauty

HotChick

Amy Clarke

She nestles her head on the little nook between your chest and your bicep. She’s beautiful when she’s comfortable. You run your fingers up and down her lower spine to the crease in between her ass cheeks. Both your bodies are still warm from the love session that just ended. Your heart rate is starting to slow down. You kiss the top of her head and take a whiff of her luscious, curly hair. You don’t know the brand of shampoo she uses, but you know the scent. It’s one of those rare moments in life when you’re completely content.

“I love how big and strong you are,” she says.

“Yeah? You think I’m strong?” you ask with tiny bit of coyness and a lot of cockiness.

“Yes. You have a big chest and arms. I love how broad your shoulders are and how secure I feel with your big body protecting my little one,” she responds.

You smile and showboat your Popeye-sized muscles by flipping on top of her and kissing her passionately. You look deeply into her eyes and then analyze her body. She’s such a fine example of femininity—her ample breasts, bountiful booty, the slight pudge on her belly that she’s insecure about (but that you love), and a freshly shaved pussy. You flex your biceps and order her to feel your weapons of mass destruction. She places both hands around one of your biceps, but it still eclipses her reach. She smiles warmly as she appreciates the years of hard work you’ve put into building yourself from a scrawny kid into a beast.

Many moons before, you were an average, slothful kid with no muscle. You were slim and weak. You had a sinkhole for a chest and biceps you could wrap your fingers around. You couldn’t run half a mile without gasping for air. You couldn’t pull up your own body weight or bench-press the 45-pound bar.

Then one day you were introduced to the weight room, the Temple to the god Brodin, he who bequeaths swoleness to those who pay tribute. It was a sanctuary that would eventually save your soul and body from the masses, whose weak minds and weak willpower keep them either gluttonous or scraggly.

The first few months are the worst. Your body is constantly sore, and you instantly pass out after you get home. You struggle to get up in the morning. Your body screams at you, ordering you to not get up, insisting that it’s unable to muster the strength to do another day in Beast Mode. Still, you get up. As shitty as it feels, there is a strange addiction to the pain. You feel your muscles being torn apart, but you also feel them rebuilding and getting stronger.

One day you pass by yourself in the mirror and in the reflection notice muscles that weren’t there before. You pause, flex, and analyze every inch of your body: a little vein there, a small rip there, a quarter-inch lost in the gut, an extra thickness in your legs, and even the hint of pecs developing.

As months and years pass, your body gets bigger and bigger. You’re growing into a man, and with that come a new source of strength and maturity not possible in your early years. One day it happens: Someone describes you as a big dude. “Am I that big?” you wonder.

No fucking way. Your childhood heroes are big: Schwarzenegger, The Rock, Batman, Stallone, Hulk Hogan, The Undertaker, Bret “The Hitman” Hart, Balrog, Wolverine, Punisher, and Duke Nukem. They’re big men; you’re just slightly above average, right?

Little did you know that throughout the months and years working out, you surpassed your peers. Their glory days are behind them, their guts formed by shitty eating and drinking habits gone unchecked while you’ve been paying tribute to Brodin.

One day she appears. She’s a petite little thing. You’re working as a bouncer while you figure out your shit. She smiles at you as she watches you work. She gazes at your biceps, blessed upon you by Preacher Curl and the Chin-Up Chorus. Your bulging chest and triceps are a gift christened to you by Saint Benchen. She slyly gazes at your firm buttocks and traps, a gift you have yet to fully earn from the Sister Angels, Squaterious and Deadliftfium.

She flirts with you. She sizes you up, and it turns her on that you’re twice as big as she is. She’s been with small, weak men before and has been disappointed. She wonders what it would be like to be with you, a big dude. In spite of your weak-ass game, you easily acquire her number.

Her clothes are on the floor. You wonder for a moment if this is really your life. Such a gorgeous being wants to sleep with you—the type of your fantasies and dreams.

She’s the type you sought to impress when you were first learning how to properly lift weights back when you were a slim, pimply teenager playing high-school football.

She’s the type you deeply thought about when you were running three miles to the gym, lifting weights, and running three miles back home while training to join the military.

The type that caused you such heartache while you were deployed. You disappeared into the gym for hours and hours, lifting heavy things and putting them down, eating 4,000 calories of food a day so when you got back, she could see what a fine specimen she allowed to escape.

The type you sorely missed on those long dry spells when you were at the gym at 1AM because you had no one who felt romantic toward you or even a solid prospect whom you could playfully text.

The type you wished would be in the little nook between your chest and arms, appreciating your hard work as you fell asleep at night.

You’re on top of her; she feels your weight pressing down on her. She loves it. You can easily pick her up and throw her around like a rag doll. She pretends to resist, but she has no chance. It makes her horny to feel so powerless. You kiss her, bite her, lick her, and smack her ass. When the moment is right, you thrust into her and show her your true power.

~Raul Felix

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If You Describe Your Nemesis’ Skin Color, You’re A Racist

In my short time as a writer on Thought Catalog, I have learned how hypersensitive and rabid, to every minute detail, the all-knowing internet can be to any form of expression it doesn’t agree with. Recently, I wrote an article called The UK Border Agency Debacle: Why I Wasn’t Allowed In England detailing the frustrating experience I had at the hands of an incompetent border agent I lovingly named “McCunterson.”

In the piece, I described McCunterson as a “gorilla-looking, big, fat black woman with a mix of a Jamaican and British accent,” which sent the overzealous comment section in an uproar over how much of a racist I am because I used a negative descriptor on a person of a different race.

Later on, after being interrogated, I was sent to the holding area where, “I paced back and forth again, calling McCunterson every inflammatory racial, sexual slur I could think of to myself.” See there? Raul Felix is a fucking racist. How dare he show any signs of anger and being a human being with flaws!

People, especially, the hyper-liberal, pretentious, over-politically correct type that love to hate writers like me, tend to present themselves as better than they actually are. They like to say that they have never had a racist thought, uttered a racist slur, or thought negatively of a person even if they were pissed. Political correctness has become such a leviathan in modern society that it’s downright over-bearing and in a way, counter-productive. It lectures people, again and again, if you’re going to be civilized, you must be offended by X, Y, and especially Z.

I created the image of her looking like a gorilla, because she was a fat fuck border agent who’s dark skin and round face made her look that way. If she was a pale, obese white woman, I would have described her skin complexion and fat rolls as the result of being an illegitimate love child of the Michelin Man and manatee. If she had a been a fat, hispanic woman, I would have described her belly as being caused by pushing out one dirty spic baby after the other. If she had been a fat Asian chick, well, we all know Asian chicks never get fat, so scratch that.

I didn’t hate McCunterson because she was black, I hated McCunterson because she was a fucking cunt. When you hate someone, you look for anything to tear and rip them apart. You analyze the way they smile, the way they twitch their eyes, the way they speak, the color of their skin, and their body type. You scour for any information you can think of so you can use it against them. If a person has infuriated me to the point where I am going to get into a physical altercation, no fucking shit I am going to drop every racial slur I can think of to put them down. Maybe you’re different. Maybe you’re able to hold your composure and make damn sure you don’t say anything offensive even though you have every intent of beating the shit out of somebody and are completely enraged, I am not. But fuck me for being honest; a thing very few of you are able to be about yourself.

Let’s turn this the other away around. Let’s say McCunterson had been a gorgeous, eloquent, and charming black woman with an amazing booty. First of all, I would have been highly attracted to her because I love all types of women, and then I would get commended for being post-racial because I saw the beauty, not color. Actually, since a lot of feminist cunts read this, I would be scorned for objectifying women. Secondly, none of you would have called me a racist because I used her race in a positive context. This proclaims that racial descriptors are only okay if it portrays the racial group in a positive light, which is utter bullshit. Racial descriptor are fair-play to use in both a positive and negative connotation. I hated McCunterson and in my eyes, she wasn’t a sexy, eloquent, and charming black beauty queen; she was a fat, black piece of shit who looked like a fucking gorilla.

We are making each other walk on eggshells over the concern of race and it needs to stop. There are amazing people in every race and there are piece of shit people in every race. If we want to progress forward as a society, then we need to start treating each other as equals, both in our love and hatred. If I hate a white guy, I don’t hate him because he’s white; I hate him because he’s an asshole. If I hate a black woman, I don’t hate her cause she’s black; I hate her because she’s a fucking cunt. Or maybe I am only allowed to hate Mexican people because I am Mexican. Fuck those border-hopping, wetbacks stealing American jobs! There, happy?

~Raul Felix
Originally on Thought Catalog

Why Getting Out Of Debt Should Be Your First Priority

My New Article on Thought Catalog: Why Getting Out Of Debt Should Be Your First Priority.

I’ve been featuring a lot of my older work on Thought Catalog and have made some small edits for readability. I felt when I first started this blog I wrote some pretty awesome pieces that a lot of you long time readers have enjoyed. I haven’t forgotten you. I know where I come from. Being featured on Thought Catalog has done wonders and I promise as I figure out shit on my personal schedule, I’ll post some exclusive content here.

Throughout the gaggle fuck of my schedule I just realized that I forgot my two year blog anniversary. I remember, slightly a year ago I wrote this post One Year and Driving On and I had one goal:

“Writing has given me an outlet to express myself. I don’t know how I went so long without fully embracing it. Because as of now, I can’t imagine living a fulfilling life without it. I made it through my first year and didn’t quit, I think that puts me in the top 20% of bloggers/writers just in itself. Now, its time to take bolder, more aggressive steps to get myself up to the 10%. Thank you for supporting me in my first year. I will continue to push myself to deliver the quality, bull shit free content you have come to expect from me and hopefully, give you a few laughs along the way.”

Becoming an employee of Thought Catalog, I’m sure in some way has put me in the 10%. Even if it hasn’t, I’m on the right track. Now, let’s see how far up in the 10% I can get this year.

~Raul Felix

The Division of Generation Y

I have written another original piece for Thought Catalog. I’m quite proud of this one and its a little bit deeper than my other pieces. It really speaks to some of the difference I feel we vets have compared to the rest of those in Generation Y. Check it out: The Division of Generation Y. Or you Can read it below. Also, don’t worry fuckers, I’ll have more original content up here soon.

The Division of Generation Y

America’s Generation Y can be divided into two distinct groups: Those who served in Iraq and/or Afghanistan, such as myself, and those who didn’t. Taking an educated guess, I assume a lion’s share of the readership of Thought Catalog are liberal arts degree bearing, student-loan debt ridden types who think those who joined the military were too stupid to go to college and were unaware cogs in the political war machine run by evil multi-national corporations with the goal of maximizing profit and exploiting the lower class. In turn, we think you’re a bunch of overly sensitive, pretentious, hyper-liberal pussies, so its even. Now, let’s begin to gain an understanding of each other’s perspective.

Our memories of our formative years are quite different. You headed out into early adulthood going to community college or university, be it full-time or part-time. You may have gotten a student loan, a scholarship, paid for it yourself, or used your parents. You may have gone to college parties, lived in the dorms, lost your virginity, and lived in an environment where you were constantly meeting new people while smoking weed. You studied with your classmates in the library and bitched about eating Ramen. The opportunities to meet members of the opposite sex were bountiful if you chose to take advantage of them. Your major causes of stress were your grades and classes. You had no idea what you wanted to do after graduation, but you’d figure it out when you had your diploma.

We headed out into early adulthood by arriving at some soul-crushing military base in the asshole region of some mid-west or southern state. We got yelled at, gave up every single bit of freedom we had, got our balls smoked off, and were taught to do things the way the military wanted us to do. After basic combat training and our job-specific school, we were assigned to our unit where we had to deal with more military bull shit on a daily basis. For men in all male units, meeting women was rare and our best shot was just walking around the local mall or using myspace because we were too young to go to bars. Our major causes of stress was the fear of pissing off our team leader or squad leader and thus getting our world destroyed. We had no idea what we wanted do to after the military, but we’d figure it out once we got out.

Your major tests were your finals, ours was going to war. You discussed the moral questions, the legality, and made pro or anti-war arguments. We were there, whether we believed in it or not. You heard and read about it from the news; we lived it. You wondered how safe it was over there. Some of us never left the wire and conducted support jobs on the base. You wondered whether those couple of people you knew who were deployed were okay. Some of us left the wire every night and conducted direct-action raids to kill or capture the key leaders of the local insurgency. Unless they were from your hometown or were a family member, you didn’t know any of those killed in action. For a lot of us, there were too many of them we personally knew. Some of you were pro-war. Some of us killed. Some of you were anti-war. Some of us never fired a single shot in combat.

You held the very important responsibility of passing all your classes and getting good grades. You strived for that internship which would help you get your dream job. You fantasized about moving to the city, being part of a vibrant social scene as you worked a well paying and fulfilling job. We held the very important responsibility of learning to be proficient at our job so we didn’t fuck up and accidentally kill our buddies. We strived for that promotion to the next rank so we would have to deal with less bull shit and be treated like human beings again. We fantasized about getting out, attending college using our GI Bill and smoking weed by the beach as we lived the college years we missed out on.

You grew up in a culture dominated by overt political correctness and thought of the opinions of some your professors as gospel. You spent your summer in your hometown working some low-paying gig and partying it up at night. Your idea of a brutal winter was when the heating system went down in the dorm rooms for a couple of days. These two wars were barely on your radar, since it didn’t directly effect you and your daily life. You even forgot we were still in Afghanistan in the mid-00’s because all the focus was on Iraq.

We grew up in a culture dominated by masculinity and thought of our Platoon Sergeants as demigods, even though they may have been only 26 or 27, we lived in total fear and awe of him. We sweated our balls off in the scorching heat of the Iraqi summer and froze our balls off in the blistering winter of Afghanistan. For us, it was not if we were going to go, but when. Our lives were dominated by deployments and training to be deployed. Some of us popped our deployment cherries in the mountains of Afghanistan and other’s in the streets of Iraq.

You made friends with your classmates; we made friends with the people in our platoons and companies. You had a terrible break-up your sophomore year in college that caused you to fail one of your classes. We had a terrible break-up while deployed, but drove-on and struggled to keep our mind on our job, fully knowing the person we loved was back home fucking someone else. You had the option of dropping out of college when it became too much to handle, we were locked in for the X number of years we signed up for.

We’re the same generation, yet, we had such a different experience of what the world was. For you, that semester you spent studying abroad meeting new people, tasting strange foods, visiting the tourist sites, and were introduced to new ideas were defining moments in your life. For us, the defining moments were those months spent in a war torn-land where any person in the population could be an insurgent, where we saw the cities through the green hue of our night vision goggles, and were introduced to new insurgent tactics and counter-insurgency tactics. Just like you, it drove us to understand the world in a deeper sense. We read books, articles, and watched documentaries about the middle east and the world in general, in turn we learned to determine our own thoughts and opinions on it.

We were both set loose on the same economic gaggle-fuck of a real world that the Baby Boomers and Generation X left us with. We were both lied to: When you got out of college and couldn’t find a job that made use of your expensive Communications degree that taught you how to comprehend the nature of human communication, the symbol systems by which it functions, and the environments in which it occurs, you went to live with the folks until you figured shit out. When we got out of the military and couldn’t find jobs that made use of our expensive training that taught us how to jump out of airplanes, fast rope out of helicopters, lead men, and conduct close-quarter combat, we went to live with our folks until we figured shit out.

Now with the Iraq War over and Afghanistan drawing to a close, we’re attempting to find our individual identities, independent of being a veteran. We’re attending your colleges, working at your jobs, and starting our own businesses. We’re a creative bunch with stories to tell and are working our asses off to become writers, film makers, actors, photographers, and artists. We’re seeking to become professionals and thus attending your medical, law, and business schools. We may have had a later start in life on our formal education, but our real world knowledge runs deep. We don’t think we’re better than you and don’t want your sympathy. We know we volunteered for the job and did it to the best of our ability. In essence, we know there is one key difference between us: we’ve already been through the hardest time in our lives, whatever else the world throws at us, we can handle it.

~Raul Felix