I’ll start, or continue, by repeating myself again for yet another additional time.
My idea of contentment does not include traditional aims such as locking into a well-defined career in a huge building or loading up a house with the noisy consequences of soiling someone’s ova with my ejaculations. I’d be sufficiently happy to spend my remaining days watching House and Family Guy, swilling coffee, reading about neuroscience and evolution and spammers and the universe at large, surfing the Web, touching myself in various places when so moved, and regularly taking a dog out for a run or a swim.
I know this seems lame, but it’s a full and joyful plate. Especially when these tasks are undertaken all at once.
New ways of altering my consciousness to suit my needs will inevitably present themselves, and I’ll dig in. Hopefully most won’t involve pharmacopoeia. And one day, properly motivated, I’ll weed all of the f*cking adverbs out of my writing, and will quit using the first-person singular pronoun so often. Not today, though.
Every non-superficial relationship constitutes the introduction of a potential mental or emotional land mine. We all understand this, I guess, but to many of us it doesn’t register as more than a blip on the radar screen of possible consequences of goal-pursuing.
Most people are “cash-register honest,” but in general I don’t trust people with secrets of the “I’m-ashamed-because-I-feel…” or “I-hate-that-I-did-this…” variety, and if you have a shred of brains in your frigging head, neither should you, because all of your trusted friends will at some point gently and lovingly ream you in the ass with corn cobs wrapped in high-grade sandpaper and possibly fitted with bayonets, especially if you give them superficially plausible reasons for doing so, as I have too often done. Yes indeed, I view almost all of my fella hominids as (sometimes incidental) agents of harm, although I freely admit that were I not such a Picasso patchwork of warbling dysfunction myself, I might
frame view things differently.
I’m not interested in assigning blame here, by the way; I think that during my lifetime I’ve associated, by and large, with cool, interesting, well-intentioned friends and mentors and such. My nuclear family certainly didn’t f*ck me up (and biologists are fairly confident that people’s personalities develop independently of parental molding anyway), although, come to think of it, my dad always swore a lot and may have contributed to my own rare but pronounced lapses into profanity. It’s perhaps difficult to engage in this kind of spewery without assuming the role of either if-only-you-understood-me victim or overbearing martyr.
What’s inescapable, though, thanks to the way I think and act is that for me to know people well and confide in them is to eventually see them act in infuriating and distressing ways. The things people do in their attempts to “help” only reinforce the ineptitude of the species, and for me the net result for me is sublimated, simmering, boiling, or catastrophic resentment.
What do I stand to lose by keeping people at bay? Nothing. (The same applies to goals requiring significant emotional and psychological investment, but that’ll have to go in a different essay from hell.) The idea of breeding is a joke; the concept of having my living space constantly intruded upon is maddening. It never works for long. I’m as fugly at a macro level as my DNA is under the surface. Although technically law-abiding for the most part, I’m not interested in living by anyone else’s personal rules; I don’t even stick to my own occasionally prescribed dicta, so there’s no use pretending I can be counted on to not be a disruption to those to whom I become close. I’m not proud to admit it, but I’m a smiling, compliant, devoted and responsible chap, except when I’m not. Then I’m a loose cannon.
I need not avoid people altogether, but must assiduously avoid strong connections to any of them. I like brightening a store clerk’s day by making a joke and getting little kids to smile when I make goofy faces as I jog past their houses on sunny days. If you need something I have, chances are I’ll share it with you, so long as it doesn’t commit me to anything. It makes me feel as good as it makes anyone else feel to be of service to others for no palpable reason at all.
Every one of us is born to f*ck up and fumble away things of value, to disappoint and deceive; some claim that inviting others into our personal maelstroms helps out the kibosh on misery, turmoil, and strife, but in my experience this merely allows these ills to thrive and propagate. Therein lies the appeal of passing transactions.
This blog is the ultimate self-loathing misanthrope’s toy, because nothing bad can happen here. As much as I piss myself off by going on and on in “I, I, I” mode, this is, after all, a blog, not a news outlet. Even if no one were to witness this self-indulgent wankery (nod of appreciation to Dr. Joan), I would still get to masturbate to mental orgasm. Some of the input I do receive theoretically has the potential to improve or at least validate my outlook, but none of this input could worsen it.
Now you know everything there is to know, so I can wrap this up. Soon.