Author: Nicholas Rubinoff

The Honda ascended Appalachia, cruising into Morgantown, Pennsylvania — a dense highway town with rush hour traffic, quiet at night. Stomach acid gnawed my mucus lining, signaling that I hadn’t eaten all day. Hungry. And busy, spending the entire day clearing music gear: MIDI controllers, pedals, synthesizers, cords from my storage unit, packaging into cardboard boxes, and shipping or delivering to eBay buyers and Facebook marketplace. The income is being used to fund my expeditions for housing, food, necessities. Cannabis.
I’ve been banned from living at home due to exposing my sociopathic mother and codependent father. I receive funding, however its unreliable and subject to change or loss. I was living in an apartment outside West Chester, but fled after discovering the apartment was filled with cockroaches and managed by a narcissist.

This was apparent by her (Julie Calboli) lies, cover ups, and unwillingness to ever meet face to face.
The storage unit lies an hour away, so I rushed to the unit, grabbed the items, found cardboard boxes at Five Below or GameStop, packaged, and shipped from the nearest post office.
Reminded me of days shipping controlled substances through the mail.
Provided a nice rush of energy. I miss it. Restaurant work sucks.
In the chaos of the morning, I forgot to eat. How many times does this occur? Too many. As the Honda trudged towards the hillside, golden arches protruded from the skyline, two humps, the shape of the letter “M” — McDonalds.
I typically don’t eat McDonalds.

A sure way to spend the evening or early morning glued to the toilet. Not to mention the small business, anti-corporate sentiment that flows through my veins. However, I was strapped for cash and hungry. I’d walk out of the local dive bar spending at least twenty dollars, with the additional temptation of alcohol I couldn’t afford financially or mentally. Still healing from multiple concussions, car accident, jumped outside a bar by a few kids, self harm. I used to punch myself in the face to get my anger out, because I was raised in a family that doesn’t allow anger. There’s no reason to be angry in my family? Especially not with a sociopathic woman controlling the dynamics, ha!
Full of resentment, I passed the local taverns and headed for the McDonalds twenty-seconds-walking from my hotel room. Another time, I said, When I have money.
The McDonalds, parked against the Pennsylvania turnpike, witnessed no shortage of patrons. A line of cars permanently painted across the drive-thru lane.
Chemically constructed hamburgers and French fries engrossed the mountaintop air.
I arrived at the ordering screen, punched an order for two McDoubles, a large fry, and large cup of water (costs less, illusion of healthy eating). The total was roughly eight dollars and fifty cents. I qualified for a coupon, oh boy. They certainly know how to keep you coming back.
I took a seat in the middle of the restaurant, a booth adjacent to the ordering screens, where a woman in a baggy, oversized button-down, black cap, and warm smile dropped a tray containing two McDoubles, the large fry, empty plastic cup.
Sitting in silence, I reflected on a week of running around from storage unit to hotel room, selling music gear, searching for housing, jumping between State Parks, trying to make ends meet.
The majority of my days are spent packing and unpacking from one location to the next, attempting to secure cheap housing. French Creek State Park, my usual hideout, was closing for the incoming winter months. This meant retreating to the nearest Holiday Inn, way outside my budget, but the only hotel without cockroaches in the area. Great.
With my parents refusal to book the hotel for a month, I was exhausted, short-winded, and a bit desperate. I’m banned from Airbnb due to my felony, so living situations are not easy to address. The closest VRBO’s: spread all across the state, nowhere near my housing destinations. 

I swallowed the McDoubles with ease, devouring the fries, crushing the ice cold water. A fountain of energy erupted from the core of my being, a warm tingling sensation, the body’s overwhelming joy at nourishment. 

Always remember to eat, I said to myself, always. 

Finishing my meal in silence, I stood to discard my trash — catching from the corner of my eye, a gentleman perched in a booth studying a laptop.
It wasn’t quite the gentleman that received my attention, but the sheet of paper taped to his laptop: “PHYSICAL VIOLENCE WOULD NOT BE POSSIBLE WITHOUT DEEP, SPIRITUAL UNCONSCIOUSNESS.”

As somebody who recently discovered their spiritual roots within modern psychoanalysis, I was captivated. Especially with his word-choice, UNCONSCIOUSNESS. I pondered a moment before removing myself from the McDonalds booth, maneuvering towards the gentleman with the laptop.
When I approached, he removed his earbuds.
“I like your sign, what does it mean?” I asked.
A smile swept across the man, white hair glistening underneath overhead lamps, wrinkles forming crevices beneath his eyes.
“Did you know you took the first step?” He asked, “Most people would’ve walked by, gone on with their day. Maybe not even noticed in the first place. But you decided to read.”
“Hard to ignore with the big red letters,”  I said pointing at the font.
He cleared the laptop from the center of the table, brushed his papers, and asked if I’d like to join. With my errands accomplished, I agreed.
“Ron,” he said, hand motioning forward.
“Nick”, I said.
“Most people would’ve walked right by,” he continued but you knew this resonated with you. You knew… How can somebody who commits violence have any understanding of who they are? How lost they must be. Do you know who the most important teacher is?”
I shrugged.
“Teachers have students. However teachers are NOT one of their own students. The principal teacher is the teacher of teachers who are NOT one of their own students.”The man then removed a stack of papers sitting parallel, eyes darting between empty McDonald’s booths. “I asked God to send somebody to talk to…and now look… Anyway, have you ever wondered what’s wrong with the public education system?”

Sure, I thought, memory floating back to six o’clock wake up calls, crammed unventilated holding tanks, miserable students, narcissistic and underpaid teachers. It’s a fucking playground, I love it. Send me back, now. Even now, the act of typing this essays is tainted. A portal to oppressive times.
I hate writing. It took me almost six months to write this essay.

The fault of the public education system?
Surely, it was literally torture waking up everyday and going somewhere you hated.
Writing about shit you don’t care about, just to receive a shitty grade from an angry, misunderstanding teacher. It’s actually no wonder these narcissistic kids are actively shooting up their schools. Broken homes, broken school, lying government. What’s there to lose, how can I prove my anger to the system?
If I had narcissistic personality disorder, no empathy, there could’ve been serious problems. I’ll be writing a separate blog about narcissism, repressed rage, narcissistic injury, and mass shootings.
“Do you know what’s wrong with our society,” he continued,” we don’t put value on the most important teacher. And who is that?”
“The self?” I asked, five years of modern psychoanalysis under by belt.

“You got it. These kids I’m trying to help, if only they could see the connection. Too busy repeating violence,” Ron said, “is a spiritually awoken individual capable of committing senseless violence?”
I was washed with childlike awe, captivated by a potential spiritual teacher.
Is this the next step in my spiritual journey? Must be, I thought.
“One mustn’t judge those who haven’t awoken. Remember…” Ron Said, “even we were once asleep.”
Ron’s fingers danced through laminated pages, flipping through a self-published packet. Locating the desired pages, Ron discussed Soren Kierkegaard, father of existentialism, and the connection between living an ethical, conscious life and alignment with the self, master of acknowledging the absurd. Ron discussed the lack of understanding self-awareness, the lack of understanding our identity. Our disconnection with God. He bounced to the Allegory of The Cave, the blind leading the blind, the failures of the modern education system. How people who don’t understand themselves are attempting to lead others. Failures are likely to occur, no?
“And you’ve been tested by God?” I asked Ron, eyeballing a black Velcro, brace strewn to a wounded hand. The man bowed his head, removing his eyes from sight, bowing in agreement.
“Yes, why yes, oh yes, Ron continued, “If you are a student of your true self, your true self is your teacher and you are led by spirit.”

Tears swelled as Ron pronounced his discoveries with enthusiasm,

continuing with claims that we’re both student and teacher, that Christ is both God and Human.”

“Christ Consciousness,” I said.
“Exactly!” Folding his arms, Ron seemed impressed with his lecture, following with a question: “So how long have you been a Christian?”
“Christain?” I asked, “I was actually raised Jewish.”The words dispersed Ron’s triumph like a gunshot. The smile faded, arms hugging his torso, body shifting from side to side. Attempting to cover signs of disgust, Ron questioned, ”Is that what you believe?”
“Hmm.. I’d say I have a more gnostic interpretatio—“
A grunt jolted from the opposite side of the table, as the man lost interest, spiraling at the comment. Defeated and without making eye contact Ron said, “You know I once converted a Jewish man…. It… took some time, but eventually worked.”

“And you did it without tying him down and placing hot coals underneath his flesh?”

Ronald chuckled uncomfortably, the energy suctioned from the McDonald’s dining room. We both sat awkwardly, spiritual material scattered across the table.
“Would you like me to email this information,” he asked
“Sure,” I replied.
Dread caressed the McDonald’s dining room table. 

Ron slid a card across the table, RONALD BARNES: Reading Support Teacher.
The opposite side read: The Paradox of One’s Identity — listing the Russell Paradox.
Honestly, I didn’t really understand the Russel Paradox. 

I’m not sure if Ron does either. The concept was incredibly wordy, describing mathematical sets that disregarded Ron’s English background. Why did an English teacher choose a complicated, mathematical theory to best explain his argument? His spiel was entirely focused on repeating lines from a business card, instead of intuitively explaining from the heart, or listening for that matter. Confusing, actually. 

More importantly, I watched an interview with Bertrand Russel.

When asked why he’s NOT A CHRISTIAN, he claims, “I see no evidence whatsoever for the Christian dogmas.” 

So I’m confused. Ron, a deeply Christain man, who self-destructed an entire spiritual conversation because I wasn’t Christian, is parading through town, pushing Christianity, and using a vocal non-Christian to reinforce his argument? Bertrand Russel who even wrote an essay: Why I am not a Christain”?

Do you see the… Paradox?

Talk about the blind leading the blind, it appears Ron was close but no cigar.
The facial distortions, verbal gasps, and folded arms were a time machine to Inquisitions, Crusades, and religious zealotry. However, to Ron, it signified a moral authority, an alignment with Christ. My religion is good, your religion is bad.
Melanie Klein’s “good breast” and “bad breast” theory, where a child splits people, places, things into liner categories of “all good” or “all bad”. A reincarnation of infant breastfeeding. The child splits the caregiver into two identities. The splitting preserves the child’s perception of the caregiver, and protects the child from negative impressions. 

“Good caregiver” and “bad caregiver” but they aren’t recognized as the same person.

Splitting breeds subconscious scapegoating, mental malleability, and one dimensional thought.

I was anticipating universal truths: God resides within every person, the microcosm of the macrocosm, discussion of higher dimensional reality, the interconnectedness of humanity, death and spiritual rebirth, law of attraction, karma…  instead Ron brushed the dust from religious history.
The conversation folded. Difficult to continue a conversation with someone who lectured you for twenty minutes and disregards you based on backgrounds and beliefs. 

Based on the first sentences that flowed from my mouth. Future discussions disintegrated. My phone screen illuminated the time.

“Thanks for everything, Ron” I said, removing myself from the table. 

I tucked the business card into my wallet and we shook hands.

“Until next time,” I said, glancing at Ron, who’s eyes sunk, defeated by his encounter with a Gnostic-Jew.

Thankful, at least, for the reminder of my hatred towards the public education system. A system of forced learning. Learning what, and why?
School enjoys treating human beings like they’re all the same, no differences.

Why doesn’t school teach us about ourselves?

By learning to focus on self-knowledge, we uncover who we are, what skills we offer, and how to implement, aka how be best help society. This avoids the pitfalls of spending an adult life bouncing from tragic employment to tragic employment, soul sucking your existence into something you hate. In the words of KRS – ONE, “school would teach knowledge of the self.” What’s more important that wealth, health, and knowledge of the self?

Instead of creating a school based around testing and taxation, we propel students with self-mastery, which benefits society by disallowing people to fall through cracks.
An opportunity to engage with ideals and themes that interest an individual. 

Not to mention a majority of teachers succumb to the narcissism pandemic.

Teachers like Ms. Coates who spent weeks attempting to suspend, even expel me for cheating, forgetting I retook a test when absent representing our high school  during the statewide business leader’s competition. 

This incident included many principals and authority figures who interrogated me for cheating. When in reality the sociopathic, elderly hag was losing her sanity and picking fights. My only high school detention came from Ms. Coates, because I was late to class at the end of the school year. Even though we had an agreement for the entire year: my classmate (Christain) and I run late because we’re coming from the farthest side of the school. She had a bone to pick. In the end, I wasn’t suspended and I received a failing grade on the test which plummeted my GPA. I guess everybody wins. Especially Mrs. Swartz, who did her best to brush along the situation like nothing happened — holding nobody accountable, especially a mean tempered, lying, mentally incapable sociopathic teacher ruining the education experience of gifted students.

Narcissistic teachers are a theme I encountered throughout high school, college, even religious school. Dark personalities responsible for crafting minds and inspiring the youth. Positions of power, nothing surprising. I also grew up with the administration’s children. So the proof is in the pudding.  Our band, Punch The System, disintegrated shortly after ‘Gregg Swartz’, the bassist, was unable to practice without a parental guardian present. Memories of calling my mom to cancel her plans and return home so Mr. Swartz could leave our band practice— Punch The System, a punk-grunge inspired garage band. Not very punk after all. 

Helicopter parenting and lack of boundaries being an indicator of narcissism — I would know, I went through similar behaviors with my own parents: monitoring conversations, stalking social media, strict video game preferences, homework enforcement. I was forced to play Xbox Live in the living room so my mother could hear all my conversations.

Mrs. Swartz became principal of the high school, where I was confronted for cheating by Ms. Coates, cornered and made to feel stupid. The lack of accountability and repercussions- a beginner lesson in institutional narcissism. Narcissists look out for one another.

The superintendent’s son, a childhood friend, is nicknamed “BM”, bad monster. A term coined for his constant uproars and blacked out behavior in social situations, private pregames, wherever. A covert narcissist who bullies his friends, spews aggression, and is actively avoided on the weekends. Cocaine fueled black outs are a regular occurrence for the superintendent’s son. The epitome of superb teaching and leadership, translating to all aspects of life, especially her children. 

His avoidance of women also being an indicator of nearby narcissism. I avoided women because of my sociopathic mother. I didn’t kiss a girl until the summer going into senior year of high school, and she just finished giving my friend a blowjob. (Ha!)

I don’t think the superintendents son lost his virginity until a couple years ago at the Chinatown massage. One for the books. Also, I’m sure he’d appreciate me addressing him as “the superintendents son”, he was sure to remind me all the time. 

Just a few observations from my life. Observations that might get me into trouble with people I know. Oh well. School’s are filled with narcissism, shit rolls downhill. Here’s the proof. From my middle school English teacher, Ms. Cooper, who kicked me out of class and asked if I was “autistic or something” because I was laughing out loud or Mr. Twiss, who gave detentions because he was lonely and knew I possessed an upbeat, positive energy? (My mother intervened and I never received detentions from him again.)
School was traumatizing. Combine school with intuitive sensitivity and a sociopathic mother, and I was unable to ever voice my frustrations regarding school, overstimulation, and conflicts with teachers. I was grounded in seventh grade for receiving my first C in social studies. The same teacher, Mr. Mussachio, who fled the school after having a relationship with Lisa Grey,  a middle school student. 

Memories of first grade teachers scolding me for coloring outside the lines, receiving low grades in art class, my fifth grade teacher treating my inability to stop writing as a problem instead of a gift. School sucks. Not surprising I found myself in the pits of OFWKGTA screaming “Kill people, burn shit, fuck school”.
So close, I thought, reflecting on Ronald Barnes, Reading Support Teacher. 

A close understanding to the interconnectedness of life, the divine within- but no cigar.

A paradox, sure, a Christian spiritualist preaching the words of an agnostic philosopher who renounced Christianity, who cancelled conversation with somebody because of his Jewish decent. Odd but in the spirit of Kiierkegaard, absolutely absurd.