I Wish I Knew How To Quit You, America

I keep right on loving you, no matter how many times you break my heart.

I tell myself that the things you do when you've got a war on aren't the real you. I tell myself that when I see you holding prisoners without trial, torturing people, burning children in their beds, even starving your own Marines, that it's not your fault: it's the stressful times, it's your anxiety about showing your age, it's fear of falling behind the neighbors. Above all, I keep trying to blame That Man. If I could just break you up with him, everything would be fine, right? But I know that really the problem goes deeper than that.

You do incredible things, marvelous things -- all of your friends envy your creativity. But you also waste so much of your time and your talent on mindless trivia.

You talk about religion and morality all the time, but I see the things you stoop to to finance your high-maintenance lifestyle.

You make young people worship you -- I know I wasn't the first or the last to be snared by you) and then you use them shamelessly.

I only wish I could just wash my hands of you, tell you to go to Hell, sit back and watch while you finally destroy yourself.

But I can't.

I love you, America.

God help me.

//The Magic 8-Ball says, "The course of true love never did run smooth."\\