Provoked by the movie Mr. Nobody, reading The Drunkard’s Walk, my facebook profile being flagged and blocked, my birthday on the horizon, as well as that impending sense of doom that’s not anxiety always in play, here I go.
I know I’m not the center of the world. I don’t want to believe it, but I know it. When I watch a movie or ruminate on what it means to be a star, it sets in how perpetually reinforced the ideas of being “special” or “consequential” are. Some lament the “selfie” craze and point out it has reached ridiculous and deadly heights. Others I’ve read point out that we’ve been trying to copy and represent ourselves since cave drawings.
The Drunkard’s Walk helped lock my head into thoughts about how random things truly are. They’re so reliably random, we have mathematical constructs that can predict across topics the degree in which you’ll find those star outliers or abysmal loses. And no matter how detailed a picture we give, no matter how accurately we attempt to measure and account for the forces beyond our control, we retain the judgments about ourselves and others about what should or could have been done.
Mr. Nobody has the world’s last and oldest human recounting several different lives different versions of himself took. Each one meaningful, filled with love and loss. It’s frankly creepy that I managed to watch it randomly right after finishing the book. It explores each reality existing on top of each other and as Mr. Nobody recounts fragments of each tale, he never once refers to himself as his name. He’s merely a figment, an idea. Nobody in particular at the center of all possible worlds.
The movie makes me think I’ve already seen the last of the “fun” or “spontaneity” that are classically associated with youth and naivety. The big bad stressful life wrecking ball came in and smashed any temptation to throw caution to the wind. I’ve complained about seeing “the end” for years, and I feel steeped in it like a soggy tea bag. Like I can see the handful of conversations I’m going to have with a few specific friends. I’m only going to hang out perhaps less than 10 times with a few others. Like, then we die. I watch you update your profile picture a few times, we get coffee, then we die.
The book constantly reinforces how not to make the popular mistakes when attempting to reason through probabilities and statistics. If you think you have a 7/10 chance of being fired after sending an email and your boss doesn’t respond as quick as they normally do, you’re leaving out any number of circumstances that may be holding up your boss. Before I phrase it in a stupid or incorrect way, the idea is to not pretend you can accurately account for all variables, nor should you use confirming “evidence” that only exists in your mind to make you feel bad.
Anecdotally, I consider friend interactions. Whether it’s responses to texts, facebook messages, or willingness to join in some get-together. I can state over and over that I know I live a different kind of life filled with more time and more money than people usually have. I don’t have the same stressors. I treat social media platforms as trying to be social and actually have debates or share things that genuinely push the limits of my knowledge or interests. This in contrast to memes, Buzzfeed, or 70 similar pictures of my walk through the park. Even with cutting my list down to 68 ish friends I don’t see nearly anything they post anymore, let alone know what to think about what I post may not be getting through.
I think my habits are what make a place like facebook so depressing. When I can’t stare at 50 people who used to have a good time bowling or drinking or would love to go down a waterslide, I eventually have to cut them down to 30 who might if I badger them. When the badgering starts to feel rude or they’ve moved away, let’s lose 20 more and shoot for 10 that I’ll prepare well in advance and employ tactfully to coincide with something else.
The term coming to mind is “FOMO.” It’s not so much a fear of missing something as it is a general dismay felt for every day that’s lost to the noise and hustle. I just missed a 4th of July get-together, a house party, and a friend I haven’t seen in maybe a year. I find this tragic in so many senses. Not only because they happen so rarely, but even if I had made it, I’m scared of what being around all the adults does for my disposition. There’s a place in between alcoholism and nursing a beer all night.
With my profile being blocked and me sending angry expletive-laced commentary to facebook about how ridiculous it is to ask for someone’s license to confirm such a bullshit profile, I managed to finish the book start to finish. I was acutely aware of how many times I looked for the facebook emblem to be flashing. How much time I spend looking into the abyss waiting for a notification of something happening or interesting to take place. In fairness, It’s heightened given that my options are a bed and hallway at the moment, but then it also occurred to me that facebook is my only connection to many of these people. The hallowed few who haven’t met the drunk fatalistic unfriend axe. To collect them all back on another profile, I started asking if it was worth it.
There’s that saying about living simply and cleaning your house; if you pick it up and it doesn’t bring you joy, get rid of it. It get’s complicated for me because the joy comes so few and far between, at least as far as experiencing personalities in person. The joy is the thought that you exist and are being kickass you wherever you are, and I mostly just have a memory of it. One corrupted each time it’s accessed. I think it’s why friendships I thought I could rely on “randomly” blow up. The parts of you that liked or recognized what I’m about became subjected to something else. I find them primed to explode over a long decay that ends abruptly when something...real?...happens.
There’s just a general sense of receptiveness I feel has died. From economic forces all the way down into how old you feel locking it away. Friends too old for you. New people way too sad. (Turns out most townies don’t stay because they’re hyper enthused about the town and their place in it.) I don’t even know if I’m saying anything of value at this point. I had to say something, maybe you’ll figure out how to say it better than I can. This remaining my rather meager means of keeping you abreast of what is or isn’t changing about me.
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