I’m an American. “Okay… What are you again?”

America doesn’t really have an identity, does it? (Just search, “Does America have an identity?” to get an idea of what I’m saying) When you try to imagine exactly what an American is, what do you imagine?

I imagine a weird being with four heads and five arms.

One head is bald and bears a red bindi on its forehead while an incense stick hangs on its lip; another head is tattooed in spiders, bears a long braided beard, an eye-patch and a monocle and a construction hat while smoking a cigarette and a blunt; the other head is female half-head-blonde, half-head-brunette, with silver and red strands running throughout, golden-bronze skin, one dark-blue eye, one light-blue eye, one brown eye, one green eye, one grey eye, one hazel eye, red eye, black eye, purple eye, and on her head is an upside-down crown; the final head is androgynous, with no face and its hair in patches, each patch a different type of hair, each type of hair a different color.

One arm holds a pair of melting scales. One arm holds a fluttering fictional book adorned by a magazine cover, using a newspaper as a bookmark, while a history book lies torn to pieces on the ground below it. One arm lifts one ton weights, while lifting one ton of heroin, while jerking off a prosthetic penis (how does it do those things simultaneously?). One arm plays a saxophone. The final arm is covered in dirt, tattoos, scars, and has nothing to do all year.

How much more accurate is your image of the American?

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