I came here to watch Dexter, or Suits. I heard they were nice, not that I care if they are. I was hoping Hollywood put enough shit in them to drown through layers of ennui, frustration and problems.
Anger, anger is good. People should get pissed more often, I don’t know what people have against anger, wanting to dump it and go for acceptance, a pathetically passive life hack that helps you get over things by extinguishing your core so you won’t have to deal with them, which reminds me of something I read in Catch 22 the other day:
“Dunbar was lying motionless on his back with his eyes staring up at the ceiling like a doll's. He was working hard at increasing his life span. He did it by cultivating boredom.
Dunbar was working so hard at increasing his life span that Yossarian thought he was dead.”
You see, anger is healthy, it means you have gusto, it means you still have some fight left in you. But most of all, it means you still have hope. As long as you still have it in you to get genuinely and vehemently pissed at things, then your soul is fine and kicking. That’s what you should thank God for, you idiots. It’s like he gave you this life-beeper and all you bitches are complaining about is the noise. “UNPLUG MEH UNPLUG MEH D: WAH!”
How can someone in their right mind opt for acceptance over anger? That’s like choosing a wheelchair over a marathon-chiseled pair of Herculean legs. Anger is good for you, you dipshits. Go break something until you feel better. You should be worried if you don’t have it in you to get pissed.
Gallows humor is damn ugly though. You see, gallows humour is just like anger, except it doesn’t have gusto, fight or hope. It’s the pulverized version of the package, what zombies are made of. It is neither aggressive nor passive, nor does it care enough to be neutral for its own peace of mind. No, it’s the darkest pit of hell, right down next to Beelzebub playing poker with Hitler’s toes. It’s a form of pain that is beyond consolation as well as human reach. It’s beyond the human reach even to the human hosting it. That’s what you do to pain you see, you don’t contain it, you host it, it’s gotta be nice and comfortable with a shitload of ever-expanding space like a black hole that swallows everything and doesn’t show a nickel for it. Gallows humor is what echoes when there is no medium, it’s what makes Russian novelists sell.
I got a theory that if you wanna find the answer to any political impasse, it’ll be right there in Russian history. They’ve been through hell and back so many times that when they finally set foot on solid ground they thought it was easier to walk on water and ended up drowning everybody else trying to patch the gap, jump pits and get some of that nirvana they’ve mined. It just doesn’t work that way though, because they paid for it with years of fighting against their own human nature only to find that humans weren’t that great after all, and their nature, in its purest form, was kind of fucked. Some answers you get when you have no other choice but to go about them the hard way, sounds pretty easy and cliché when you put them on paper, eh?
Man I love Russia, the same way you’d love a dead puppy.
It’s funny how I always find myself staring at a blank post right about the time I’m usually staring at a brick wall. All those years of writing for magazines haven’t done anything but make me feel guilty for whoring it out. I define myself as a writer, not because I can write, but because I need to write. And all that printed shit with marketing tricks and psychological manipulations aren’t pieces of literature, they’re just origami. And not the creative type either, but the type that comes with a catalogue. All about target and method. There’s something about writing for the sake of writing that makes you vulnerable, to yourself and to the world; and that is why I can never see myself writing a book. There’s something about whoring out your vulnerabilities that doesn’t hold a candle to whoring out marketing techniques and psychological loopholes. It’s depraved. Kind of like spending hours practicing an instrument, not for your own enjoyment, but to wow a crowd. One day, the last panda on earth will run into a metropolis choked with humans holding a sign saying ‘You’re doing it wrong!’, and humanity will finally get it.
They say the best thing that happened to humankind was when one of them decided to ask why, I think it’s the opposite. That’s just one of those times when people deny things and rationalize their diametric contradiction so damn well that they couldn’t reach it again for solace if they tried. If somebody pretends to know why, or happens to be sure of anything, they’re probably lying. There are no reasons, there is no design. It just is and you ain’t special.
And isn’t it great?
