Let's try something different. Here we're gonna be mildly tipsy, take the first launch-pad thought, and try to get something down before I make a series of poor drunken decisions in going out. No rambling teary-eyed angst fest wondering how my brain decided to capitulate at the zero hour. No lamentation I didn't decide to sleep with someone I wasn't into. No guilt over my propensity to manipulate and smile too big about the absolutely boring nothingness you told me, but are convinced I find fascinating. Oh man, I'm changing the whole game with this one.
Anyway. I just watched a man play piano for elephants. One of the captions said, “They say elephants never forget, maybe they'll remember Paul forever!” Or something close. Forever. What an idea. What a persistently reassuring thing. Forever you'll reside in heaven. Forever your impact will be felt by those who come after you. Forever the universe undulates and resets because, as you're certainly well aware, “nothingness” is too unstable, and after enough quantum fluctuations, something akin to everything we've ever known is not just inevitable, but infinitely so.
Shooting for the idea of “forever” I don't think is necessarily bad. The day your baby is going to die is not what's on the mind of parents. Underwritten is the expectation that humans will colonize the stars, or at the very least they'll have that same kind of bitchin party you once called the greatest night of your life. Selfish genes be damned! If forever wasn't a thing, I wouldn't be made to suffer the infinite hole of my perspective, if my solipsistic argument would be sufficient alone.
But on to better things. Are there? You can really feel the arbitrary free-form to this bullshit tonight, no? I'm trying incredibly hard to have the basement division of my subconscious brain persuade me that “hefty” middle-class wife/life is as good or equal to the kind of Bezos-adjacent (I'm in no way as moral as I suspect Elon's Asperger's compels him) kind of life. I was seriously entertaining the idea of being a slumlord-esc person the other day. Whether it's attract poor people to the land I already own, or invest in other properties and put up affordable, hard to destroy green-based things elsewhere.
Think, I'm still bitching, but I'm bitching about more and more minute things. My air conditioning isn't set up! Well, the whole house is, and it's paid for, and so is the land, and everything I need less maybe a water pump. I'm down to the particulars. When I had the coffee shop, it's analogous to complaining about not having 15 varieties of tea instead of 3. My first-world ass is showing. I'm finding myself moved to want to make that happen in a big way at the expense of people I have no respect for. It's not money=value in some strict fashion. But I'm ever-more convinced the world looks the way it does because there are people who actually embody the kind of people depicted in places like Atlas Shrugged, and those who do everything in their power to absolve themselves or attempt to hijack the work. My work is bordering on making me insufferably smug.
I don't fear repercussions. That is, I know how to navigate the world at large, and get that people can hit back, and know there are laws and whatnot. But I don't think there's a kind of “cosmic comeuppance.” I don't believe in Karma. I don't think anyone gives a shit or there's any manifestation of consciousness that could accurately do the math, let alone long enough to ensure the result was an accurate one. So, I'm tempted to pursue those kind amoral rich cliches. You know what happens when DCS shows up to your bed bug house? We foot the thousand dollar bill for your slumlord. Go us! And we didn't even fix the problem because they exist in more places than your house alone.
I know you can't get crazy with it. I don't even want to get crazy with it. But I want white people entitled reparations. I want the kind of life I was “promised” or envisioned for myself. I want all the lost time between when I was 20 and now that I could have shaken my youthful ass and went about whoring that didn't have to be coupled with a mature and measured tone of my “adult” 30 year-old self. It sucks knowing better! I want to be an idiot and confident in that, or at least, I want to take what I couldn't squeeze out of it from somewhere else. This is a horrid thing, don't get it twisted. You shouldn't behave this way, nor should I. I just, I don't know, don't really care. Or, if I care a little, I can feel it slipping.
The only reason why it would is from a misguided sense of pride and ego as well. There is no respectable “individual” without one, I'm sorely convinced. The “damage” left to account by your God I imagine. The idea that I would unlock that kind of “cheat code” freedom to explore those darker exploitative corners is really dawning on me. Who's going to stop me? Haven't I, in my own long-form convoluted way, been begging you to?
Lol, this is goofy and long enough. I'm gonna finish these beers, take a few shots, and find a way to the bars for a series of ridiculous and dumb conversations, and I'm not even going to sabotage myself if there's a decent-enough honey who's trying to mack. And 90% of the reason I framed it that way is the smirk it caused on my face. Peace, ninjas.
No comments:
Post a Comment