The Diary of a Zion-Masochist

“I know it looks unseemly, but I simply cannot help myself; these encounters have become my oxygen, my drug of choice. I’ve compelled them all to attend my “negotiations” until they vomit their very essence. What they fail to grasp is that I’m a creature of exquisite manipulation, I wield my tragic history as a velvet-covered brick to coax them into my chambers, only to systematically dismantle their fragile frames.

I remember my first: Palestine. She was spirited then, launching her quaint little provocations. It was adorable, really. My response, a touch of “disproportional” devastation, nearly snuffed her out. But I’m far from finished with her; she’s currently in the corner, trying to piece her dignity back together for the next round. Meanwhile, I’ve invited Lebanon to the dance. He’s delightfully clueless as to why he’s even here, so I simply pretend he shares my appetite for this zion-masochistic waltz. I strike him with the weight of a god, and he offers no reply. Frankly, it’s becoming quite tedious.

I even attempted a ménage-à-quatre with Lebanon, Syria, and Iran. Good heavens, not even the three of them can withstand my “holy strength.” They scream about divine obliteration while I chuckle behind my hand. They remain blissfully ignorant of the sheer potency provided by my pimp, my “provider,” the USA. Should I stumble, he’ll simply delete my detractors from the archives of the universe. Why worry? I’ve been the “Chosen One” since 1947. The menu is vast, Europe or Asia? The queue of sorrow is forming at my door, and I can hardly wait to greet the next guest.”

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