Friday, March 26, 2010

Truth and Happiness 2/3

Hey, I thought the multimedia components of that last thing were pretty cool, so I am going to do it again for this one. Here is the first song.

So. I wrote some stuff. Yes. It’s pretty emo, huh. Buncha weird emotional bullshit, right. Lots of cussing. I cuss cause I’m raw. I say “cuss” cause I’m southern. Check this shit out:

Nigger faggot cunt dicks shitty ass fuck chink kike damn.

Yeaaaaah. I probably just blew your mind out, right. I am just that raw and edgy. Check out my deep emotions. I feel shit, nigger. Because I’m punk, right. I say stuff no one does cause I’ve got huge cojones. Agh, this was a terrible way to start this. But I am not even going to edit it, that way it’s more original and raw.

The key idea here is raw. The fresher it is, the better. The more I shock you, the better. Ka pow ka pow. It’s a Cormac McCarthy approach to journal-writing. Blood. Guts. Impropriety. Check it out I’m dane cook, saying what shouldn’t be said. I’m George Carlin, I’m Dave Chappelle. I’m fucking Hunter S. Thompson. This is so stupid. We idolize people who have the guts or complete lack of shame to say whatever they feel like in public. We idolize people that go against the grain, regardless of their motivation or message. We idolize Sarah Palin, we idolize Glenn Beck, anyone at all who is willing to stand up and say “I’m different, and you should be too.” When I was a kid, for a short time I wanted to be like everyone else. Then I decided I wanted to be different, right about at the same time everyone else decided they wanted to be different. Nothing changed, really.

I guess what I was trying to say, I wrote all that stuff and I sound like an angsty bastard and I hate it. Cause I’m not really angsty. It’s just how I feel sometimes, you know. Maybe I sound depressed, but I am not really, I swear. I am perfectly capable of taking enjoyment in things. I do it all the time. I don’t hate the world at all. If I ever tell you I am depressed (*cough*) I am just saying that because I feel sad at the moment and I’m not good at seeing things that make me happy when I am sad. It’s not really the truth.

The truth is: I’m a person, just like any other person. The only thing I’m doing here is talking about it more than many other people do. It doesn’t make me better, it doesn’t make me unique, it just makes me a person. Why am I doing it? Well, I can tell you all the reasons I can think of right now, but I’m not sure if they’re quite right. The answer, like most answers, is probably some horrible amalgamation of all of these, plus several things that I am too embarrassed to mention, or am not actually aware of.

Reason one: to get it out of me. I need an outlet for this sort of thing. Sorry I make it public, but I feel like a part of the outlet is that someone has to read it. Thanks for doing so, by the way.

Reason two: For attention. I am a huge attention whore. I desperately seek the notice of everyone around me to validate my existence because I am vapid and shallow

Reason three: Because I am depressed and crying for help. I hate everything and I hate life, and I am saying it the only way I know how: through internet cutting by writing dumb things.

Reason four: I’m bored as fuck. I need something to do. Why not write. If I am going to write, why not write about me. It’s easier than writing about someone else, that’s for sure.

Reason five: Writing practice. I need to work on writing and mastering my “craft” as it were if I hope to ever achieve any form of success in a writing career. This also helps with other things that I write, such as essays and such. It helps me to actually put things down on paper so that they’re there and immutable. Relatively.

Here is the other song here

Reason six: I’m trying to inspire myself. Sounds a bit like masturbation, I guess, but I’m trying to jumpstart my creativity by thinking and writing this sort of thing and taking feedback and the like.

Reason seven: I’m searching for people who feel the same way sometimes. It would be cool to meet people I could honestly say are like minded. They’re pretty rare, I think, though I have met a lot of mad fresh peeps represent’n their shit up front. Anyway, only way to meet them is to advertise, yeah?

Reason eight: I’m attempting to (I wrote satisfying for some reason.) verify and rationalize my existence. I’m just trying to make sense of it all. If I can get it out of my head and take a step back, maybe I can understand myself a little better. It’s a key tenet of Taoism, you know. In order to comprehend Tao, you must first comprehend yourself.

Reason nine: I’m trying to capture a frame of reference, a state of mind, a composition of being that I am now and will likely never be again. It’s a form of memoir, an autobiography in action. Years down the road, I will be terribly embarrassed for myself, but happy to have a real record of how I actually thought back then.

Reason ten: by telling you everything, I can tell you nothing. I say all that I can about myself and the way I feel so that it seems like I’ve been entirely trustful and forthcoming but really, I have told you very little. It’s a form of hiding in plain sight. It’s like dropping smoke when you’re in a tank. Stuff like that.

None of those are true, or conversely, all of those are true. They’re all plausible at least. When people ask me why I pick one of those reasons and present them. Sometimes I change reasons when they ask me again, which makes me seem like a liar. But I’m not actually lying. All of those reasons are correct. There are even more reasons, in fact. All of this to explain one simple essay. And the kicker? This isn’t just me. This is every single person on the planet it’s me times six billion. It’s fucking crazy. It’s incomprehensible.
I’m just one of them, you know? I’m no better, no smarter, no stronger than a kid born in Africa (at least born without some awful crippling disease). There are hundreds of millions of people who have the capacity at least, to vastly outstrip me in every endeavor I ever attempt. I’m a dot on a screen of static. It’s crazy. I really am not special, and neither is anyone I am ever likely to meet. Sure, maybe I can write okay. Sure maybe I can reference all sorts of history, science or math. But I certainly couldn’t survive in the wild. I couldn’t survive on my own. I have no clue how. I need society. I need it to live. But society most certainly does not need me, nor anyone else I know.

There’s this kid in Florida. He’s fifteen, and he listens to me. He respects what I have to say. This to me is just phenomenal. He respects me and what I say solely based on what I’ve said to him over aim! It’s nuts! I didn’t really do anything to deserve it, but damn. Now I feel like I should do something to deserve that respect. He’s so cool, too. He’s like the fifteen-year-old I wish I was when I was fifteen.

This ended up being a bit short, but I have one more to go and I want to finish it today. Nigger.

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