Fuuuuuuuuuuuck!
Thank God, I've started. I have a dozen ways to start this, that was it, I can move the fuck on.
Anyway, I'm 30. I've been thinking of writing a commemorative blog about that for some time, never knew what it may say, as if I ever do, but we can float around some themes and hopefully give me something to shit on when I'm 60.
I just. don't. care. You know the drunk “battles” you get into from someone who's been kissing your ass for a half hour and then flips on a dime? No more. They just don't matter. It's not something magic that happens when you're 30, but you see it as this blip in the ongoing endless stupid conversations you're going to have with everyone until you die. I get it, you don't understand your degree anymore than I did, bleeeeeeeeeh.
More important, let's talk about “real perspective.” I got this social work job. You know how many people have been worked over by their social circumstances? Everyone. So the girl surrounded by guys who's had a difficult upbringing is endlessly hugging and deferring to my experience in saying I do social work. Now, let's be not cynical and say I'm not viewing this as some sort of game or sexual angle. What I am doing is solidifying that my experience is fundamentally real and connect-worthy and a basis for the kind of empathy and connection that tag-alongs can never touch.
And even that doesn't feel like the point.
As I was walking back to the house, before I called the Uber, I was thinking I wanted this to be a massive cathartic blog. A place where, in anticipation of being famous one day, all of the worst shit I could ever think to come to light would be neatly packaged for people to read and judge.
I was thinking of doing so because I don't feel guilty about my life. That's been a persistent theme I've encountered a lot lately. The best life is the life you live knowing how and why you did something and being able to say you'd do it again . This is the theory I tend to agree with. I've never been a person of many, if any, regrets, and the idea of why I would figure my life in those terms is persistently intriguing.
If I had to say the “worst” shit I've ever done, what would it be? I slapped the shit out of my girlfriend. Fucked up, right? Why don't I feel regret? First, I wasn't angry at her. I was the guy who said at least a thousand times, “I would never hit a girl” before I was presented with a situation I never anticipated. What's my excuse? I was scared as shit. The person I cared most about dragged a razor down her arm, I wrapped that shit up in a blanket, scrolled through a thousand random assortment of images of how to deal with the situation, and tried to slap her back to sanity. My ridiculous, cartoonish, terrible response thought this is what happens when someone loses their mind and needs to come back.
Would I do it again? Have me care about you and drag a razor down your wrist in front of me and find out.
The title of this blog refers to what you would do. The title is about what you would do a million times if presented with the same situation. I honestly can't think of many situations in which I'd change what I did. It's not because I'm filled with hate. It's not because I even think it's “the best” way to go about things. I just try. I just believe. When I react without thinking, it catches me off guard. And when I think something is fucked up or some “secret” demon, I want more than anything to talk about it.
I'm 30, right? I legitimately had no imagination for myself past this. I was supposed to be quasi-rich and just “living it up” by now. I had gone to the top of some hierarchy, made money, did “whatever,” and now all the ill-conceived people of my dream would be there with me living it up. My ideas the moronic incomplete ridiculousness that anyone provoked in youth might ascribe to. If in 30 years I can't come to account for the things I've done, things I actually think, or place I want to be, well, I've already said the early 20-somethings were hopeless, but as long as I think I'm better than you, if you haven't heard it by now, I should never bother writing again.
Consider, I don't regret being a whore. I don't regret being put in a situation where people would accuse me of rape. Why? Am I so brazen and “alpha” that I just don't give a fuck? Am I so self-satisfied and deluded that I could never acknowledge the pain I caused? I guess that's going to depend on who you ask. As far as I’m concerned, I'm still not a predator. I hurt her. That shit was not my intention. That was not on my radar then, and I was too much drunk to be a judge of the okay-ness of the situation at the time. You either believe that or you don't, but I'd line up everyone I've ever fooled around with to testify to my behavior, shitty or otherwise, before I let you get away with some bullshit.
I make the comment often that I'm already dead. 30? That's foot more than in the grave, it's hand reaching up slowly sliding over the coffin lid. I don't say this shit by accident. I feel dead and dying, all the time. I feel the encroaching darkness as my muscles and joints fuck with me. I know that shade I catch from the kids at the bar is significantly more unbecoming than endearing. But you know? I've always had and always will have this. I can nail down the moment. I can over-share. I can scream every ounce of my perspective because, as long as I maintain intentionality, I win. You should consider that when you want to label atrocities of character. When are you going to employ your hurt or empathy circuits? When you are going to draw stark demarcations or play with the lines?
I have nothing left to give. I can just write. I can just report. I can just try to tell people with as much as everything as I could wish for them that they do indeed have “it” and I'm in awe we happened to be talking about it. I can only apologize when I feel sorrow. I can only share, apparently, when you're comfortable enough with me sharing, which, consider this the absolute rejection of your discomfort and censorship. If you're not too old at 30 to give a shit about people's childish feelings, when the fuck is it supposed to click? Reality is what you observe? Reality is what you make of it? You're responsible for your feelings and whether or not life looks “good” or “bad?” Well excuse me, I'm hardly in the business of endless justification for smiling about fucked up shit. Reality is what I talk about and share. Reality is what you're choosing the balls enough to discuss honestly. Reality will not be taken from me, I've spent 30 years barely scraping the surface to not be as shitty as the things I'd call fucking shitty!
I give a fuck. I give waaaaaay too many fucks. I give the awkward fuck. I give the self-obsessed OCD fuck. I give the fuck that's fucking typed every blog. I give the fuck that makes me text people I haven't talked to in years kind of fuck. I will DIE with the ignorant bullshit faggy hope that everyone I've ever pissed off will mellow the fuck out and we'll be chill again one day. That's me. That's never going away. All the pain I've caused or feel perfectly capable of causing more of was not, and is not, the goal. If I'm fated to pretend along with the general superficialities of life, at least one place won't play by those rules.
Okay, those James Gunning for me, what else is there? I've said “nigga” and “nigger” enough to claim a measure of racism. I'm a “woman-beater.” I'm a sexual deviant, in that, I don't care who or when or why you want to fuck. What other layer is there? How much more do I need to shed before I can carry on with the business of being me? Isn't this the kind of shit the Catholics get off on weekly?
I've grown resolute. I'm not convinced, but I am unashamed. I will do. I will say. I will create. I will try. I will question and challenge. I will fight. No one gives a fuck about me. That's the point. No one gives a fuck about what I write or how much. No one gives a fuck about how much I make or the random-ass connections I use of my mental associations to create something. People treat my “truths” as point-and-dismissed fodder. People watch the show that is “[redacted]” As long as I'm the protagonist of my story, trying to sleep at night, hoping to impact the frivolous world with an ounce of direction, I'm going to do me. And “me” will be lucky to find much beyond the handful of people who already care to hear about it. So be it. I'm already dead.
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