Operation Killjoy

Bullies, anti-heroes, and the new Great Depression.

By Nia Molinari

I stare at the computer screen. The screen glares back, mocking me with a silent cackle that only I can hear. I swear it loathes me. I’ve been trying to write for nearly a year now; the writer’s block is beyond real. New pieces for PREVAIL, a screenplay, a novel, a rewrite of a TV pilot I wrote a few years ago—they just sit in my head like a congealing constipated mass of rotting nihilism. 

My interior dialogue oozes with melancholy: I mean, why bother? Nobody cares what I have to say. I’m nobody. There’s no point in doing anything. The whole world is in chaos, and there are so many other people in pain out there with much bigger problems than my bullshit. The days blend together in a generic haze, one…after another…after another. Where does the time go? It’s like my whole life is happening all at once, and yet, somehow, not at all. Nothing feels real, but yet I feel everything, deeply, too deeply, in every cell of my body. Sometimes it feels like our planet itself is crying, wailing in pain, and there is nothing I can do to help her. I feel helpless and hopeless. I can’t think clearly. I’m tired. I’m so tired. Is there a word for “tired of being tired?” Does it exist? My soul is tired, endlessly trapped in a spiraling quantum-collapse time-loop of existential stagnation. What the hell does that even mean? What is wrong with me? How do I get out of this dark hamster wheel of overwhelming nothingness? Where is this coming from?

I have battled with severe anxiety and clinical depression since adolescence, although I had no idea that’s what it was until I was nearly 30 years old, when, after a series of crippling panic attacks, I was diagnosed with PTSD and ADHD. Knowing this back when I was a teenager would have helped me immensely, of course, but mental health wasn’t really a thing back then. You just chugged along: Walk it off or Get off the pity pot. You assumed everyone was like this, it was just…life, and you weren’t trying hard enough. My PTSD manifests more as anxiety-based, with infrequent major depressive episodes. Sometimes I take medication for it, sometimes I don’t need it. I would love to try EMDR, but I can’t afford it. It’s too expensive. However, I have always been able to pull myself out of the darkness, eventually, when it happens. 

Not this time. I’m stuck. I can’t crawl out. I’m drowning in it, and I’m trying to figure out why.

As a textbook Gen X latchkey kid with a divorced single mother who worked two, sometimes three jobs, I spent a lot of time alone. I was happy, but kind of a loner, mainly due to the fact that we moved around a lot. What did I do with my time when I wasn’t at school? I played outside, I watched television, and I read books. Oh, I didn’t just read, I read everything I could get my sticky little eight-year-old hands on. After my mom would finish reading the books she received from her Book of the Month Club, she put them on the shelf. Then, I would read them. All of them. She soon realized my voracious appetite for reading, and probably also came to the conclusion that most of the books I was reading were not age appropriate (in retrospect, this amuses me). So, she signed me up for my own Book of the Month Club. A new book every four weeks? I was in heaven. 

Every month I would anxiously await my new book, and devour it within a week, shit, sometimes in a single day. I also continued to read her books. I don’t remember all of the titles, or which book club they came from. The titles I do remember? The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe; The Hobbit; Charlie and the Chocolate Factory; The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn; A Wrinkle in Time; To Kill a Mockingbird; The Cay; Watership Down. A meticulous and precocious reader, I would read all of my books with a dictionary on hand to look up any words I didn’t recognize.

And then, one month, Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World found its way to the bookshelf (I seriously doubt that one was in my book club). I read Brave New World twice in a row, and cried my eyes out both times. Somehow my eight- (or maybe nine-) year-old brain had managed to fully grasp the concept of the “noble savage,” as well as the novel’s dystopian takes on cultural conformity, bullying, and individualism. It forever shaped my view of the world, and humanity. 

My mother remarried, and we moved to Arizona, to this little house not far from old town Scottsdale. As a result I started a new school, yet again. I was now in the fifth grade. This kid in my class who lived on our street had a birthday party, and I was invited. All I remember is standing in the backyard, and noticing some “big sixth grade” boys off to the side of the yard in a huddle, laughing loudly. Curious, I tried to determine what I was witnessing as I approached them. Two of the boys were holding down a medium-sized white dog. A bigger boy with a shaggy mullet of blonde hair, definitely hitting puberty early, was giggling demonically as he shoved what I soon realized were M&Ms up the poor dog’s anus, one at a time. I stood there, mortified. They turned their heads and noticed me. “Go away,” the mullet bully-boy yelled at me. I was so stunned that I just did what he said. I immediately left the party and walked home. The image still haunts me to this day.

During recess or lunch at school, I would sit and watch this one boy who was a phenomenal gymnast do tumbling passes on the lawn. There were two little girls who were always with him. One of them wore a curly short blonde “Annie” style wig, and the other girl had this vibrant long red hair, but I could tell she was developmentally disabled. I had asked my teacher about them. She told me that the girl in the wig had leukemia, a kind of cancer, and she wore the wig because her hair had fallen out. The other had “Down’s Syndrome,” and she was born that way. I soon ascertained that the little boy was doing the tumbling passes because it made the little girl with the red hair squeal with delight, with pure absolute joy. He would do it again and again. I loved watching this. It made her so happy. Her joy was infectious. It made me smile. (This is what inspired me to do gymnastics, and I started classes that year.)

We were all rushing outside for recess one day when the mullet bully-boy crew appeared. One of the boys yanked off the little girl’s wig. They all laughed. The redheaded girl started crying, and one of the boys pushed her and yelled “Mongoloid!” The gymnast boy tried to intervene, and mullet bully-boy grumbled “Fag!” as he shoved him to the ground. I had enough. I screamed “Leave them alone!” at the top of my scrawny little lungs. It stopped, at least for that day. 

Adolescence: the glorious age of emerging cliques and groupthink. I swiftly figured out that cliques are not big fans of any kind of self-confidence, non-conformity, or logical disagreement (and, for that matter, neither were the alcoholic adults around me). I continued to be myself, and I continued to defend the victims of any bullies. As a result, I was then bullied throughout junior high school. They drowned my P.E. clothes with baby oil. They pulled down my shorts in front of the whole class. They surrounded me and shoved me into a mud puddle. They put gum in my hair. The adults were no help. “What did you do to them?” they wanted to know. “Just ignore them,” they said. Gee, thanks a lot. I didn’t want to be at home, and I didn’t want to be at school. So I forged my mom’s handwriting, wrote myself excuse slips, and then I would go sit in the desert all day and read until school was out (usually it was whatever the newest Stephen King novel was). Eventually I got caught, but it was bliss while it lasted. 

My pubescent misery remained unabated. Trying to help, my mom asked if I wanted to go away to college-prep boarding school. Hell yes! I applied to a ton, was accepted to most, chose one, and off I went. I loved it. Then somehow I managed to piss off the “in crowd,” and the bullying began. It was inevitable, really. By nature I am brazenly incapable of ignoring the fact that the emperor is flagrantly fucking naked. And, oh boy, let me tell you, entitled spoiled rotten rich kids are some of the cruelest creatures on the planet. To call them “bullies” or “mean girls” is a compliment. The titular “Heathers” in that film are sweet philanthropic angels in comparison. I was determined to not let them get to me. You live with them on campus, therefore you can’t avoid them, so I ignored them. They didn’t stop. I laughed at them, and that just made them angry. Whatever. I stopped caring, I even began intentionally antagonizing them for my own amusement. Someone pissed in a huge cup then threw it in my face while I was sleeping; it was still warm. Another took a shit in front of the door to my dorm room so we would step in it. They dumped a wheelbarrow full of horse manure into my roommate’s bed. And that’s merely a sample of the sick things they did. They were never held accountable, not a single time. Eventually they gave up and left me alone. My remaining years I stayed focused on school and the end goal: becoming an adult who didn’t have to put up with this childish bullshit. Great education, in multiple ways. No regrets.

When I turned 18, a family member took me to register to vote. The woman asked “Which…” The family member interrupted without hesitation, “Republican.” I asked why. “Because we are Republicans, that is what we are. Every election, just vote straight down the ballot for every Republican.” I paused. “What if I don’t like them?” The glare, and then, “It doesn’t matter if you like them or not, just vote for the Republican.” I didn’t ask any more questions, but I thought it was weird. “We are Republicans,” like this was some sort of genetic trait, and not a political ideology? My 18-year-old brain decided: Well, if this is what politics is, it’s stupid. Between that and how politics in the real world conflicted with the expensive ritzy education I had just completed, I assumed all politics and politicians were the same, and I chose to not give a shit. My decades-long abnegation for politics was born. 

I dove into the arts. Theater, acting, writing. I loved every minute of it. However, I didn’t realize at the time that I was battling severe social anxiety, PTSD, and eating disorders. It hindered my potential to complete anything, including college. Also, my disdain for bullies and any authoritarian dickhead bosses hampered my ability to hold a “normal” job. I didn’t know there was anything wrong with me. Hell, I was a survivor! I rebelled against any and all of my conservative upbringing. I wanted to immerse myself in the arts, travel, and be a nomad: experience the world, expose myself to other cultures. So I did that. At 21 years old, I became a starving artist who supported herself as a stripper, and as odd as that seems, I was generally happy. Neurotic and more than a bit mad, but happy.

I still had an insatiable appetite for reading, and I became obsessed with “anti-heroes.” This wasn’t a new thing; Batman was my favorite comic book character as a kid. I found a new anti-hero to love: Anne Rice’s vampire, Lestat. In the first book you think he is an unconscionable narcissistic evil jerk. In the second book you learn that he…well, he is a narcissistic jerk, but he has a personal code. He only feeds on, and kills, the “evil doers.” He observes humanity, loves humans, but knows he has to feed to survive, so he eats and kills the assholes of humanity. Now that was a monster I could get behind! 

The longer I worked as a stripper, the more I understood Lestat’s code. The strip club environment is intense; I discovered that street sense is not the same thing as book smarts, no matter what anyone tries to tell you. I’ve known wicked smart sex workers, and people with PhDs who are dumber than dull dirt. It is not the same kind of intelligence, at all. I developed my own “code” within the subculture: I wouldn’t hustle good people, only the assholes. One night a young guy came up to my stage, and held his hand up. He was holding a five-dollar bill. “Here,” he said. “This is all the money I have until next week.” Oh, sheesh, I thought. I told him, “No. Keep it. Come back and see me when you get your paycheck.” He tried again, but I politely refused. C’mon, I can’t do that, take someone’s last five dollars, that’s just wrong. The same night, some jackass wasn’t spending any money, but he kept insisting that I meet him in his hotel room. Relentless smug little prick. Finally I told him, “Okay. Five hundred bucks up front. Give me the key. I’ll meet you there.” The dipshit did; he gave me the cash and the key, with explicit instructions. I smiled and told him I’d meet him in an hour. I went into the locker room, changed into my street clothes, tipped out, dropped the key into the trash can as I walked out the back entrance, and… then I went home. What was he going to do, complain to the big-ass Italian guys working the door that one of the dancers he was illegally soliciting for prostitution ripped him off? I never made as much money as other women in the clubs, but I believe that maintaining my boundaries, and having a personal “code” like Lestat, is what helped me survive that world, and it kept my sanity somewhat intact.

The year I retired from the strip clubs was the year Bush Jr v. Gore was on the presidential ballot. That was also the first time I had ever sat and watched the results roll out live on TV on Election Night. I remember how weird the “but wait, Florida” that happened late at night was, and then the whole “hanging chad” debacle. It didn’t make sense to me. It was… odd. The ensuing Dubya administration, with 9/11, the Iraq War, weapons of mass destruction that never existed…all of it was such bullshit to me. I awoke from my political slumber, and I vowed to myself I would never vote for a Republican ever again for the rest of my life. 

I still didn’t get involved in politics, nor did I get involved in any debates with anyone about it. I didn’t discuss the subject around my Republican family, even when they made freaky comments.

I voted for Barack Obama. Twice. I loved what he represented: Hope. Hope for humanity to live without divisiveness, with unity and joy. I felt…joy. We are all human, we all have flaws. No human being is perfect, we are not gods, and no candidate is ever perfect either. I never agreed with Dubya or his administration, but I didn’t hate him for breathing. 

After Obama’s inauguration, social media began to slowly mutate. It was becoming something else, something… darker. Something sinister began to simmer underneath the surface of the happy pictures of people’s kids, vacations, food, and Caturday memes. In the course of a few years, internet exchanges changed. What was once “I love pancakes!”/“OMG I love pancakes too! Let’s go get pancakes! You are my new pancakes friend!” became “I love pancakes!”/“WHY DO YOU HATE WAFFLES? DIE YOU STUPID LIBTARD BITCH!” The divisive exchanges were, and still are, not only about politics, but about EVERYTHING.

When observing the division and hate-fueled chaos in our culture right now, I frequently think about Jeff Bridges in The Fisher King, as he looks down at Michael Jeter sprawled out on his lap in the hospital waiting room: “Did you lose your mind all at once, or was it a slow gradual process?”

Oh, our country has lost its goddamn mind, and yes, it was a slow gradual process. I call it Operation Killjoy. It was a manipulated long con over the course of my lifetime, one that exploded the festering wound wide open with the election of Obama, the rise of the Tea Party, and then the Tangerine Trojan Horse of Hate coming down its gaudy gold-plated escalator. As mortifying as that relentless psychopathic creature is, it isn’t the worst part of all this for me. The worst aspect is how it unleashed the most horrible and dreadful aspects of people. It ripped off the mask, and gave people permission to be the shitty assholes they really are—which was even worse than my already-cynical mind had previously believed them to be.

I have family members I barely speak to, or even see anymore. I have lost decades-long friendships over division and hate—people I thought I knew. I frequently wonder: if the country becomes full neo-Nazi Christofascist, would they turn me in for being part of the resistance? Would they be okay with the genocide of other people who I love and care for? Would they participate in the genocide, or would they just turn a blind eye to it because it didn’t affect them or their lives? Is this who they really are? Is this who they have always been, and I was just too stupid to notice it? 

I’ve always had anxiety-ridden social phobia, but there is a new wrinkle now. When I see strangers, or meet new people, I immediately wonder: Are you one of those hateful people that voted for the creature? Are you one of the MAGA bullies? Yes, I said “bullies.” They are all just fucking bullies. They are the mullet bully-boy who shoves M&Ms up a dog’s anus and enjoys making people miserable, all grown up. They are the cruel, self-entitled trust fund brats who will never be held accountable for their awful behavior. They are the quintessential Killjoy. All of them. That is who they are. They are mean and miserable, so goddammit, you will be too.

It’s difficult to enjoy anything anymore. The creature is no longer in office, yet the stink of his nasty ass orange taint remains. We can’t wash it off. The mainstream news media and various “social media influencers” don’t try to stop it; they encourage it for their own monetary benefit. As we move into the next presidential election cycle, the hate and division is being amplified by the same cast of assholes all over again. 

It’s nauseating, exhausting, and just flat-out depressing. 

Why isn’t anyone confronting all of these MAGAt bullies, these fascist Flying Monkeys? Why are things like Miss Howler “Jackboot” Dixie here even allowed to exist, much less continue spouting this level of hate and treachery? Sure, free speech and all, but really? This is untenable. It needs to stop, and I don’t know how.

Then there was CNN’s most recent tremendous failure for ratings: having the bloated Tangerine T-1000 on for a live town hall under his own terms. Chris Licht thought this was a great idea. Honestly? It could have been. I mean, everything is an episode of Jerry Springer now; low-bar sensationalism sells. They wanted ratings, right? As I see it, Kaitlan Collins had the opportunity of a lifetime to become the legendary anti-hero we all want and need at the moment, but she didn’t do it. I kept waiting for it, but I knew it would never happen. She would press the creature, sort of, but then back off. That does nothing but feed his ego, and activate his malignant narcissism. First of all, she should have worn what a Fox News morning show diva would wear: push those tits up, long legs and stilettos. He would be so distracted, because he’s a pig. (There’s a reason spies use honey pots; they work because most men are stupid.) Then, when she walked closer and stood right next to him while asking questions, it would REALLY agitate him. If he backed up, she would follow and stand right next to him again, and again, and again (like he did to Hillary Clinton in the second debate). When he growled at her, “You are a nasty person,” she should have slinked right up to him, looked him directly in the eyes, smile, and calmly responded: “Yeah? Well, you are a fucking asshole. A pussy-ass little bitch.” Boom. Live on TV. Right there. He would have immediately snapped into a narcissistic rage and quite possibly attacked her physically. (Street rule: Always get them to swing first). I would have done it, taken one for the team. In a heartbeat. The world needs to see that side of the creature, because we all know it’s there. He’s an abusive bullying psycho. Yeah, his hardcore base would love it, but it would have an effect on a large portion of the voting population that they could no longer ignore. There is no way Collins would have done that; she wouldn’t want to risk her future career. But I wish someone would. It’s time. It’s so past time. Why isn’t anyone doing that? Why isn’t anyone standing up to these evil bullies? 

Sigh.

In the last few months I have been checking in on the news, but trying to avoid saturating myself with it, for sanity reasons. It’s not working, I’m still fucking depressed as hell, can’t pull out of it, but nevertheless, I am trying. My spirit animal, my inner Savage, is, well… unwell. The lines from Brave New World:

“Did you eat something that didn’t agree with you?” asked Bernard. 

The Savage nodded. “I ate civilization.”

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LISTEN TO PODCAST

On today’s PREVAIL podcast, I rant about Sam Alito and RFK, Jr. Then, I replay my first interview with Nia Molinari.

Note: There is no broadcast of The Five 8 tonight. LB and I will be back next Friday.

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Photo credit: National Association of Manufacturers billboard, Dubuque, Iowa, 1940. (John Vachon/Library of Congress).