My country

My country is like a bowl of shit with a cherry on it. You may like the cherry, you may like the bowl even, but you can’t ignore the turd in between.

I love my country, don’t get me wrong, it’s just that the poor thing’s been through so much. We got out of a bloody war only two decades ago. Our economy was shattered and our population decimated. How do you start again after that? Well, that’s an easy one: you take loans from big banks.

That has worked pretty well up to know; our government begs for money and then we collectively pray to some undefined deity that we’ll have the population that will be able to return that money in, say, 20 years time (our birthrate sucks).

I guess, one gets usually sentimental about the people and the language, when it comes to one’s homeland. Not politics or government or taxes (unless you’re Gerard Depardieu, am I right? High five!). It’s the fact that you’ve been born there and grown surrounded by people you care about and who care about you that makes you all dribbly inside.

Or maybe I’m overly sentimental.

My country is perhaps peculiar in that natives will probably say all the worst things about it and how they want to get out of here, but when they do, they’re positively idealizing everything. It becomes like a paradise lost to them or something.

Some say we’re similar to the Irish in our personality. I don’t know about that, I’ve never been to Ireland. But if the Irish are loud, emotional, impulsive, contradictory, of a tragic history and uncertain future, drunk most of their adult life, well… Then we must be distant cousins (however historically improbable that may be).

I love my people as well, don’t get me wrong, but I also catch myself hating them viscerally sometimes for being such idiots. Which makes me a self-loathing idiot as well, I guess. Logic is such a bitch!

I don’t know. There’s no punchline here. I just wanted to write this. Get it off my chest.

Doodly-doo!

And, yeah, peace, as well.

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