Luckily for me, I recently wrote a very ridiculous, redundant, and shame-worthy “defense” of drunk driving. That seems as good a thing to start with as any. What on Earth would possess me to do such a thing? Boredom is a cheap and easy answer, but not correct. Devil’s advocacy pretends there’s really another side that isn’t bred from self-indulgent ignorance. No, the only reason to write something like that is because I believe it every time I, or someone I know, gets away with it. The longer we get away with it, the more compelling and correct it feels to defend, in spite of the bullshit nature of the argument.
You also don’t make an argument like that for fun. You do it because you’re desperate. The guilt starts to build. The magnifying glass you apply to your life spends a little too much time under the sun. The hopeless and hard to define reality starts to shape words and windows of justification because, how else could it possibly be? This is your state of being. How long are you willing to torture yourself thinking you are perpetually wrong? No one’s arguing back, at least, not with any muster. More to the point, no one’s really paying attention, and if you can’t create this little island of soapbox proclamations, get busy drowning.
With little to nothing to look forward to, you begin to worship pain. You want to hear the drama from your friends or your town about their health or relationship issues. You want to see people screaming at each other in reality television. You’re finally back to sharing something meaningful! It’s not just wait and stew and think and drink and wander and lose yourself to moments that pick away at your being. My mind just shot across thoughts running from religion to revenge porn that could speak to this, all of which I’m going to ignore.
We have this presumption that we have a right to live. Like the goal is to survive until the end of the universe. Like our programming is made of anything more than the same instincts animals have to lick themselves and masturbate in public. Who gave us that idea? One of your gods? One of your fears? Your proud indignant ego? “The masses?” A small group of well-intentioned but ignorant people who would have reasonably killed themselves otherwise?
Our species is terminally sick first. That’s the struggle for finding a purpose or reason. That’s the lip service to hope and love. That’s so-and-so’s foundation and your anonymous donation. That’s eloquent defenses of liberty and justice. That’s belligerent nonstop greed and fear-mongering. It’s this giant depressing, looming, terrifying dance with death we never learned how to deal with. Our methods reinforce lies. Our methods are fake smiles and secret prayers to the darkness. We talk about what we “can never do again!” and to “think of the children!” Death isn’t real. It’s like a cold. Over-medicate and sleep it off, and it’ll never come back.
I want to die. The catch, I want it to be for something, more specifically, for me. I want to kill my time on creating what is stuck in my head. I want to lose weeks or months off my life staying up too late and partying too hard striving for the extra memory or spark of inspiration. The sad part won’t be when I’m gone. The sad part will be when it clicks that it’s in this moment I know I’ll be dying for nothing.
“Reason,” “progress,” “common sense,” or any other qualifier you want to apply to the space we occupy in evolutionary history do not, and cannot, win. You think you’re helping? It’s helping yourself. It’s helping yourself to cope. It’s your persuasive rhetoric to keep you showing up to work and inventing new sex games with your spouse. You’re a “good” person or a “hard worker” or called your congressman and recycle. You’re an “inspiration” and a “leader” to those around you who “just needed a little encouragement.” Language is what keeps your disposition alive. Hatred and fear fuel the soul.
I’ve been thinking that there are an infinite number of universes, and each one is dedicated to a specific lesson. This one’s is that we’re infinitely small and need to learn how to die graciously. That we won’t discover what’s making us sick or how to defeat the lies until death takes the forefront. Hearing about old cultures and the origins of human sacrifice certainly tells us this can go terribly wrong, but the Mayans could never cut out as many hearts as are stopped when we drop bombs.
We can dial it back from genocide though. I have a wonderful story about sexual exploitation. I recently met a girl who described showing up to a friend of a friend’s house to buy cocaine. Within minutes one of the 2 guys who were there took her to the bathroom and whips his dick out. She describes being put off and angry. Then it occurs to her, as they leave the bathroom and drink/snort a little more, that while she’s had plenty of 3-ways, it’s really been her fantasy to be with 2 guys instead of her with another girl and guy. Dick-whipper now gets rewarded for showing initiative.
Their scene gets interrupted when one of those gentlemen’s girlfriend shows up and knocks at the door. The guy who drove my new friend to the apartment is friends with her boyfriend. A fact he uses to try and blackmail her into sexual acts a few days later, claiming he has no incentive to keep the secret.
There’s a “moral high ground” person in me that would begrudgingly support every half-assed 14-year old run Tumblr page about the immorality of men and how NOT APPROPRIATE WAAAHHHH it is to present your dick to someone within 3 minutes of meeting them. I could put on my pretend psychologist hat and explore the hidden self-loathing and lack of esteem this girl holds for herself, despite her clear enthusiasm in relating the tale. I could go belligerent soccer mom and disavow the use of drugs because they “clearly” lead to this or that. I spent most of our conversation debating whether I could stomach hooking up with a girl I wasn’t attracted to sober.
For those wondering, these are the instances in my life I draw from in describing a contrast between “people I deal with in general” and “people I apply the word friend to.” My concern wasn’t for her and her decision making. I wasn’t even being funny running through “butterface” jokes or that scene from Scary Movie. I don’t know how to blame someone who’s taught themselves that showing their dick can get the desired result as wrong, when even the girl who capitalized on her “opportunity” at least said she thought it was wrong too, but picked differently. Words like “respect” for each other don’t really make sense in that conversation.
From the sickness of my stagnant and ridiculous circumstances, I perpetuated the lie. Not that I’m concerned with what you do sexually or what drugs you take. But I pretended along with her that this situation was complicated or interesting. I played along like it’s “her relationship to honesty” that’s all that matters in whether or not she should tell her boyfriend. I didn’t go out of my way to be actively flirty, but I left a proper window of tension open as some perverse “option” for later. Not one I plan to pursue, but I no-less gave myself up, like she gave herself up.
I do think I’m broken. I don’t take joy out of nice things or pleasant conversation. I want the game, the exploitation, and the cold sad feelings that drive you to be interesting. I want you to selfishly and pointlessly use me or my words to make yourself, and by extension other people, miserable. Then maybe you’ll do something dramatic. Maybe you’ll get the stage and tour the country giving impassioned speeches about things we all know but can’t feel. Maybe the tragedy of my head can reach you before damage of something more horrifying becomes personal. Can I co-opt the space for your actions after losing a child to gun violence? Can I poke your depression and anxiety until it bleeds into the waters of more influence? Can I make you afraid of genuinely feeling like me?
Now we get empathy. That’s when you understand. None of this support group bullshit. No “it gets better” moment. Now there’s teetering and flirtation to sustain you. You’re forced to incorporate death onto your thoughts. You’re forced to balance pushing too hard with somber contrition. You jump off the roof when you’ve spent too much time under water.
I’m a symptom of the larger sickness. I’m the fallout and the lie that we didn’t drop a bomb. I have to pretend every moment that this was worth it, and have little idea as to why, other than to spread the pain around. At least I own it. I don’t want it, and this might be me trying to give it back, but I know it’s mine.
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