I’m starting to think that people who listen to electronic music think too much that lyrics just don’t cut it for them anymore, they could always find fault with it, all they really need is a soundtrack to the credits rolling in their busy heads, something that sits well with the purring and crackling of their cranial engines.
It’s gonna be harder to find someone else who’s as sarcastically lashing as Mark Haddon and is equally inclined to believe they’ve been put in the wrong body, and should’ve been a dude after all. But hell, that’s what’s life is about, innit? Making you feel inadequate in the most creative of ways.
It got me thinking whether that’s why bad things happen. The big dude in the skies thought that maybe if life was bland and alright all the time, people would get bored after a while. With that same logic that presumably trespasses that of humans’ by a couple of bigfoot leaps then postulated that if life was great most of the time, people would have nothing to wake up for the next morning; they’d have accomplished everything they ever wanted out of life before they hit the glamorous two-digit privilege. Shit is there to make us not want it enough to give tomorrow and ourselves the benefit of the doubt.
Or that’s how I choose to see it, because I don’t know about you, but I’d hate it if life was a series of unfortunate events knotted and buckled into the shambles that are what is left of you with absolutely no hope of relief in the horizon. Or maybe I’m discovering the joys of the delusional phase after lingering around the angry phase for too long.
Maybe that’s why he left all the forums unanswered, he probably thought an army of seraphim and a fleet of cherubim wouldn’t make for enough admins to handle all the counter-arguments when people have to face one absolute truth once and for all. It’d take a lot longer than eternity to clear that up.
A couple of weeks ago, I would’ve laughed at whoever attempted to make me look at the bigger picture, and see that somehow things work out for the better even though we might not see or expect them to with so much bird poop clouding the windshield, but right now, I think smashing headfirst into that tree was probably one of the best things that ever happened to me.
You may not get it. But some of these posts are written so that only certain people could, and most are written in a way that only I could. So, again, don’t try to analyze my head dumps for calcium, and for the sake of all that is holy, fingering my poop to make sense of your own life is not only pathetic, it’s a new level of sad that has bypassed trekkie gatherings.
About the bigger picture, a funny thing happened today. It was funny because it wasn’t supposed to be. The little quips that are lost in the rush of every day’s folds and later erased to refresh your RAM. However, taking a glimpse at life from my mom’s glasses set light on a lot of things. Running for top of the list is this: Parenting is not for the faint of heart.
Me: Mom, do you have any idea how many times I get the urge to kill you throughout the day?
Mom: Yes actually, do you have any idea how many times I get the urge to run for my life throughout the day? You’re a fucking scary kid.
There is one thing I’m learning to appreciate though, and it is my tendency to entirely detach from reality and the entities roaming it when it gets too much. Psyches have restore points too. Mine seem to be automatically updated and set to a functional point of time and crash back to it without conscious prompts. Dad has always said that if it hadn’t been for my short circuits, I would’ve probably choked a kitten with my bare hands before I turned 6.
Man am I thankful for em short-circuits.
Work is starting to feel more and more like school as days go by. They’re doing the same mistake, getting people competitive to the point where they’re ready to bite each other’s heads off to get ahead. If only I could’ve taped my elementary school years and played it back to them for proof that it’s a failing regime that kills every hope of passion for the actual damn thing and turns people into death-eaters. Oh well.
A new friend of mine put up a decent fight with the cashier because her milkshake didn’t have whipped cream as it so promoted in the flyer. For the first time in almost half a decade, I’m starting to remember what it felt like to spot shit out without sky-scraping billboards flashing and pointing at it two feet away.
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