As I write this, I can’t help but laugh. Years of biracial confusion have rendered me almost senseless to the idea of the self. You see, my name is Ativ Schuberg, and Jewish though the name is, it isn’t my real name and neither am I Jewish nor am I a flamboyant arse who spends his time writing blog posts about meaningful questions. I chose the name of Ativ Schuberg because a close friend suggested it to me when I told him that I was always being mistaken for being Jewish in this town in an Eastern European country no one has heard of.
Anti-semitism is to blame for this blog, as it is to blame for thousands of injustices around the world. I am not here to discuss the world, and I am not here to eulogize. I am here because I have lived for six days in this country and facing isolation, I turn to the glare of my laptop’s screen like a typical loner who looks, typically, like Martin from The Human Centipede 2. I am tired of the usual solace found in the vigorous manipulations of my genitalia, and I find that climaxing is becoming less enjoyable by day.
This is not just some rant in the endless sludge of the Internet, it is my story, uncensored and unfettered. I don’t owe anyone anything.