Scenes from Poland flash into my mind. The gray street I lived on for two years, with the hipster cafe right across my kitchen window. My favorite pub where I’d stand next to the bathroom and fish for loose Polish women. The Catholic Church I walked by a thousand times but only went into at the very end. The shopping mall with the basement supermarket. Two-hundred grams of cheese and one-hundred grams of ham, prosze. I met a virgin there in the produce section, and I’m sure she still is a virgin.
I’m back home in my place of birth. Poland was only a waystation, but I made too many memories there. I remember the lake I would ride around with a rented bicycle and the pleasing aroma of hamburger meat from the food truck down the street. I remember the profession of insincere love she whispered into my eager ear. Go away, all of it! You are not a part of my life anymore.
I commandeered a section of my mother’s living room. I look out the window and see my 21-year-old mountain vehicle parked on the street. Three black teenagers film a low-budget rap video. Poland taps on the glass. Do you miss me? Maybe going back could be good for me. I wouldn’t need a car to get around. My friends would live only minutes away—no more driving for an hour or two just to have a dinner with them.
And don’t you remember how cheap it was? You can’t afford America, especially after burning your books in so rash a manner. You’ll need a lot of time to write new books. Cheap and pleasant Poland can help with that. How else do you think you’re going to live? You don’t even have health insurance. Your parents wouldn’t mind if you go back. They love you, and will support you like they always have. Go back, Roosh, go back to Poland. The United States is not for you.
Get behind me, Satan!
My life in Poland was a fantasy. Money from sex filth, auto-deposited into my bank account. Women sexually craved me because of a beard and an accent they heard in movies and television shows they never should’ve watched. No family responsibilities, no rides to give to my mother or aunt. No real worries or concerns. The hardest part of the day was pumping up my muscles in the gym to sustain a steady supply of sex. Did my latest game book add to my savings? Let me count the dollars. Does the harlot want another go? Let me prepare the bed of fornication.
Living abroad was supposed to make me a man, but it made me more like a woman. It made me effeminate, an addict of pleasure and comfort. The bigger my muscles became on the outside, the weaker I became on the inside. Fornication put shackles on my wrists; cheap living put them on my ankles. Where did my virtue go? Lost in my luggage on one of my yearly visits back home to pretend I loved my family. And what of those men who followed me into foreign lands? Blind like me. I lived a fantasy for too long, and now when I want to live right, the memories of all my mistakes penetrate my mind when I pray, when I drive my mother to the supermarket, when I pay $400 for a visit to the dentist.
I lost and found myself in Poland. Killed and reborn in the same place. Deemed so by God. Poland served its purpose; the world served its purpose, but I am not a child of Poland or the world. I am the blood child of an Iranian man and Armenian woman who immigrated to the United States, my home. I am the spiritual child of God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Let Poland be for the Poles and let the world be for the worldly. Get behind me, Poland, I live with you no longer.
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