Yet again, I've gone from planning my blog post around some conventional topic such as the abject misery wreaked upon all humans by the breakdown of (sigh, I really hate this word) relationships to writing about a topic I thought of on a complete whim. While everyone should be used to my absolutely chaotic and unstructured approach to life by now, for those who are not my nearest and dearest, I apologise, as every time I mention that I have half-written a blog post that will probably debut a week later, the odds are is that it will stay that way- half-written. I know the mark of a good writer is being able to plan and structure your work, meticulously check it for errors and then post it online for the ravaging hoards of elitist wordsmiths to rip apart like a den of rottweilers in a pile of paper chains. So if anything I've mentioned as a planned segment has caught your interest, sorry... following through on plans is not my strong suit.
Today, after managing to gather around three hours of sleep in the last 48 hours, I decided to brave an excursion into the pit of misery that is Tweed City Shopping Centre, despite the numerous amount of hoons in customised utes I'd have to battle with to secure my position of the road. Every time I visit this particular location, I have to approach it as a chance to observe the inner workings of human behavior and be completely objective, otherwise I risk becoming extremely depressed and setting the whole thing on fire (for any law enforcers that may be reading this, that last part is something us young people refer to as a "joke". I do not have any real intention to set any major public buildings aflame, the extra gas tanks in my car are just for emergencies). Not once have I visited there and thought "ah, bless, the coming together of these people provides me with greater hope in the human race, as how else can we unite except by cutting off each other in the carpack and annoying others by using our mobile phones in the cinemas?". Maybe it's something to do with the lack of airflow and bad lighting, maybe it's just because if you cram me into an enclosed space with enough people, I will start thinking of many creative ways to murder them, but being there always puts me on edge. While not everyone is bad, on some days it is like the whole place has been hired out to showcase the very worst kinds of people society has to offer.
Maybe it's because of my British heritage, but I've always had an almost anal retentive regard towards politeness. While it can be argued that I can be very crude, especially with my fucking language, I have this compulsion within me to try and be uncannily gracious in all social interactions with strangers. This manifests itself in me doing things like awkwardly holding doors open for people that are standing slightly too far away, offering to hold screaming children, anxiously hovering around dirty dishes at other people's houses offering to clean them and occasionally refusing offers of food simply because I don't want to inconvenience anyone. Of course, as I get to know people and their parents, the barriers go down and I reveal myself for the crass, uncouth slob I really am, but there's always that initial compulsion to present the perfect picture of politeness.
Because of this, the rudeness of other people, to put it in colloquial terms, really shits me off. Many people who have seen a film with me at a cinema in recent years know that I am currently conducting a one-woman war against people who text during movies. I'd like to think I'm above chucking popcorn at the back of people's heads, but it does get tempting when my light-sensitive eyes are blinded by the unwanted glare of an iPhone 5 screen, only for the sweet release when the phone is finally stowed away to be interrupted by the annoying jangle of a polyphonic ringtone as the person sitting on the OTHER SIDE of the cinema receives their blasted text message. I mean, really, are you that repulsed by each others' bodily odors that you can't possible sit together and whisper? Did you two swallow magnets as children and so cannot come into close quarters so you are not ripped apart by negative forces? Or better yet (and this goes out to all those people who think it's perfectly acceptable to shout like they're at a football match when I'm trying to watch something I paid ten bucks for), you could just shut the fuck up and watch the film. See, that really boggles my mind. Why on earth would you drive out to a public location, pay money to see a movie... and then spend the entire time on your phone like you're reclining in your own lounge-room? You could probably set fire to ten dollars to get the same money-wasting effect, AND then I wouldn't have to see your sub-intelligent selves at the cinema. Anyway, to make this brief, all I'm saying is that if I ever find myself in a position of power (I was voted most likely to go into politics back in year ten, and we all know how that's a great indicator of our futures), my first decree will be to threaten all movie-texters with public execution. Or at least make it so they're paraded around the cinema with an "I HAVE THE INTELLIGENCE OF A PROLAPSED DONKEY ANUS" sign on their chest. You have all been warned.
Another pet hate of mine when it comes to issues of being polite is the use of car horns. As a person that used to burst into tears if she got beeped at (I hardened the fuck up though, as if you drive in Queensland, you must get used to it), I can testify that it is not a pleasant or helpful sound. I think the human equivilant of a shrilly beeping horn is a little fat man with a red face yelling "GO FUCK YOURSELF, YOU INCESTUOUS EMBARRASSMENT TO THE HUMAN RACE" while flipping me the bird and sodomising my various family members. Because, you know, nothing helps a panicked driver than a sound that is basically reminiscent of being shouted at for being a dumbass. Honestly, I think the sheer hostility of the sound itself has made people use it more out of anger than due to actual road safety. Who hasn't slammed their hand down on their horn and been like "what a fucking idiot.Obviously legally blind and I bet he has a small penis too" (or, for the ladies, "what a fucking idiot. Obviously legally blind and I bet she's on her period"). But menstrual cycles and small penises aside, I think car horns just sound too hostile and rude. It would comfort me greatly if we could install a more comforting alert into our steering wheels, like a selection of soothing nature noises. I'd love it if the next time I was cut off in traffic, I could press a button on my car and make the noise of a mating whale at the errant driver. Until that happens, I will continue to hang my head out of my car and make a rough approximation of the noise myself.
One other thing that particularly annoys me is when people ask really blunt, personal questions or make potentially upsetting comments that the conversation could have safely done without. Just a heads up, if I've only known you for about a day, I'm not going to like it if you ask me how many people I've had sex with. Or what my favorite position is. Maybe I've just been unfortunate enough to talk to a lot of opportunistic perverts, but my stance on that information is that I will only discuss it if I feel that our friendship is worthy of that kind of trust. The sad truth is, while everyone should be able to be loving, trusting and open, because people are human and therefore fail at doing basically decent acts all the time, there's certain information that one simply can't be free with due to the possibility of it getting spread and distorted through gossip.
Similarly, I do not like people making personal comments to me. As probably none of you are aware, I like to pretend to be a strong independent woman that don't need no man, but on the inside, I can get shaken very easily by what people say. This doesn't make me any lesser for admitting it, being impacted by the thoughts and opinions of those around you is a very common thing. So if you come up to me for the first time in months and immediately cheerfully tell me that I've "put on a little weight", do not be surprised if I make an excuse to leave the room so I don't immediately fire back "and so did you, you fat cunt". A big one that I used to get back in high school (it's a relief to say it, even though I've only been out a few months) was "gosh, Phoebe, you look tired". There is really no nice way to say this, unless you're giving someone permission to go to bed and will be following them with a glass of warm milk and an illustrated version of The Hobbit (incidentally, boys, if that sounds like your idea of a good date, let me know). You're basically saying "God, you look shitty and exhausted, I'd better say something about it so you know everyone's noticed". It's especially awkward for us olive-skinned people who are born with the type of under-eye bags usually only gained from six months looking after newborn triplets with colic. I know most days, I look like I haven't slept for a week, but that's honestly just how I look. Now stop commenting on it, or I will find an excuse to take all your family pets and replace them with murderous cassowaries.
In a nutshell, while I'm not saying we should return back to Victorian sensibilities and refer to trousers as "unmentionables" and treat the exposure of legs like a graphic view of a man's genitals, I think modern society could benefit from realising that being polite to your fellow human being is a pretty good idea. It's nice to do things like shake hands, hold doors open and make conversation with cashiers that go further than a standard "how're you going?" "good". It's also nice knowing that people don't think you're an asshole for playing on your FUCKING PHONE through AN ENTIRE GODDAMN MOVIE (look, I told you all, it's like a pathological issue with me. I hate it so much). So next time you're out, try to be a bit more mindful of others, even if they aren't mindful back. There's not really anything to lose, and what can be gained is a knowledge that you are intellectually superior to all beings that dare text their friend across a cinema while I'm trying to watch the last Harry Potter movie.
Friday 28 December 2012
Friday 21 December 2012
An Obligatory Christmas Post (Sort Of)
Originally for this week's post, I was writing up a huge rant on the complexities of human relationships (I lied. There are none. We're just a bunch of monkeys that should be mindlessly boning everything in sight, but we had to develop the ability to communicate, which made the process a lot more complicated) and how frequently, basic assumptions defeat a person's ability to find a decent bedtaker-upperer (my new word for relationships and everything in between, because it does essentially boil down to having an extra body taking up room in your bed. Hopefully a living one). If you're interested in reading my views on that (you shouldn't be), do feel free to let me know somehow. I accept all methods of communication, from facebook messages, carrier pigeons and carving messages into my flesh. Perhaps not the last one. However, then I had the sudden realization that it's a few days until Christmas, and since I couldn't be arsed to cash in on the hysteria of yet another fake apocalypse, I might as well base a post around one of the most overly exposed, widely celebrated holidays of the year.
This may come as a big surprise to everyone; despite my jaded, cynical view on almost everything (my list of pet hates include tiny dog sweaters and kitchen roll with pastel patterns on them), I actually really love Christmas. It's a fairly recent rediscovery. Probably most of you will know, or not know, even, that my parents divorced when I was fifteen years old. What subsequently followed was the worst Christmas of my young existence- even worse than the Christmas when one of my presents was an eggcup (don't ask). Without going in to details, I will say that it's probably best not to celebrate the first Christmas where your parents are separated with the family of your father's new partner. You will feel alienated and alone on the one day a year that's supposed to be all about family, plus tensions will be higher than Christmas dinner with the leaders of North and South Korea. Anyway, unfortunately this one bad experience turned me into a Scrooge for a few years. I not only literally screamed into the faces of anyone who brought up Christmas plans in front of me"I HATE CHRISTMAS. CHRISTMAS CAN SUCK MY DICK!" (okay, not literally, it was more me quietly mumbling "I don't do Christmas". But it's funnier to imagine me puce-faced, spittle flying everywhere as I wrathfully denounce all attempts at being jolly), I actively tried to boycott the holiday by hiding in my room drinking cranberry and vodka until everyone had ceased being merry. Well, at least for one year. To be fair, I was fighting with my then-boyfriend the night before, so there was an extra layer of shit on the shit lasagna that was my Christmas experience of 2010. Another pro-tip for having a good Christmas- do not fight with your partner just before the holiday season.
However, my overwhelmingly British heritage and childhood nostalgia would not let my holiday spirit remain dead and buried. It rose from the grave and brushed off the shoveled dirt of years of disappointment, flying at me like a zombified Christmas angel with chubby arms outstretched to embed itself in my soft brain. Actually, I lied, it wasn't that dramatic. I just wanted to fit in a zombie simile somewhere. More what happened was the feelings of merriment I'd suppressed for so long began to creep back up on me. While I still wasn't actively participating in Christmas, I couldn't help but look enviously at other families and think "wow, I wish my parents still cared about real pine trees, roast dinners and decorating" (I'm a traditionalist, so sue me). I'd add "I wish my parents were still together" to that list, but I don't currently have a death wish.
But what cemented my return back to the land of the holly-jolly Christmas, silent nights and reindeer with horrific luminescent birth defects was my journey to my birth country a month ago. I think part of the reason why my love of Christmas was killed stone death was because... and here it goes, I'm preparing myself for a lynching... Australia doesn't seem to care about Christmas quite as much. There's a reason for this. You see, the reason why Christmas is such a huge deal in Britain is because it breaks up three months of solid winter. Days are shorter, everyone's freezing their tits off and it doesn't get any better until around April, and then it starts raining a lot. Having a big, dramatic festive season bang in the middle helps keep people going. And that is why on the last day of November, many British people were already wishing me a merry Christmas. That is why all the shop fronts were bedecked with Christmas finery even though most people hadn't even thought of buying presents yet. While Australia also jumps the gun on celebrating, it doesn't need to get any more festive than putting up some tacky plastic decorations because it's the beginning of summer and there's plenty more opportunities to get pissed and do dumb shit. That's like the definition of summer- everyone getting drunk and stupid while wearing very little clothing. Of course, the same happens in the U.K, but it's harder to muck around when you're wearing 3+ layers and a knitted Christmas jumper. If Australia had a mandatory item of Christmas clothing, it'd probably be a pair of festive budgie smugglers.
Anyway, what I'm trying my best to get at (even though I'm clearly getting sidetracked by various tangents) is that everyone should try to experience a full English Christmas. You know, the stereotypical kind with the 7 foot tree, a huge goose, a roaring fire and an umpteenth viewing of The Wizard of Oz. I had an early Christmas with the family I stayed with before leaving, and although it wasn't the whole shebang, it was enough to lift my spirits and make me feel quite loving towards my fellow humans (which usually grosses me out). So now that I'm back in this horrifically hot country, I've made an effort to make my Christmas more special. I set up my own Christmas tree (Mum wanted to stick to a very modern "tree" made out of driftwood painted gold, which is all well and good, but again, I'm a traditionalist), made a playlist of carols, replaced my usual snack with a mince pie/cup of tea and sat watching It's A Wonderful Life while wrapping the last of my presents. It's not much compared to what I know others are experiencing, but being able to indulge in the holiday spirit even a little is making me a lot happier this year. I know I'm not going to get spoiled and I never really expect much from this time of year, because honestly, we don't have the income for it, but I think creating an atmosphere is enough. Creating a sense of anticipation is enough. And while I'm too old to believe in Father Christmas, I may leave out some milk and a mince pie... just kidding. I'm going to eat them, laugh and go to bed. Stupid fat red fucker.
Merry Christmas everyone. While I know Christmas doesn't work out for everyone, I hope you all take the time to appreciate your families, whether your biological one or the friends you chose to be your family. Peace on earth and all that shit, and know that "merry" is now my code for "I'm a little bit wasted".
This may come as a big surprise to everyone; despite my jaded, cynical view on almost everything (my list of pet hates include tiny dog sweaters and kitchen roll with pastel patterns on them), I actually really love Christmas. It's a fairly recent rediscovery. Probably most of you will know, or not know, even, that my parents divorced when I was fifteen years old. What subsequently followed was the worst Christmas of my young existence- even worse than the Christmas when one of my presents was an eggcup (don't ask). Without going in to details, I will say that it's probably best not to celebrate the first Christmas where your parents are separated with the family of your father's new partner. You will feel alienated and alone on the one day a year that's supposed to be all about family, plus tensions will be higher than Christmas dinner with the leaders of North and South Korea. Anyway, unfortunately this one bad experience turned me into a Scrooge for a few years. I not only literally screamed into the faces of anyone who brought up Christmas plans in front of me"I HATE CHRISTMAS. CHRISTMAS CAN SUCK MY DICK!" (okay, not literally, it was more me quietly mumbling "I don't do Christmas". But it's funnier to imagine me puce-faced, spittle flying everywhere as I wrathfully denounce all attempts at being jolly), I actively tried to boycott the holiday by hiding in my room drinking cranberry and vodka until everyone had ceased being merry. Well, at least for one year. To be fair, I was fighting with my then-boyfriend the night before, so there was an extra layer of shit on the shit lasagna that was my Christmas experience of 2010. Another pro-tip for having a good Christmas- do not fight with your partner just before the holiday season.
However, my overwhelmingly British heritage and childhood nostalgia would not let my holiday spirit remain dead and buried. It rose from the grave and brushed off the shoveled dirt of years of disappointment, flying at me like a zombified Christmas angel with chubby arms outstretched to embed itself in my soft brain. Actually, I lied, it wasn't that dramatic. I just wanted to fit in a zombie simile somewhere. More what happened was the feelings of merriment I'd suppressed for so long began to creep back up on me. While I still wasn't actively participating in Christmas, I couldn't help but look enviously at other families and think "wow, I wish my parents still cared about real pine trees, roast dinners and decorating" (I'm a traditionalist, so sue me). I'd add "I wish my parents were still together" to that list, but I don't currently have a death wish.
But what cemented my return back to the land of the holly-jolly Christmas, silent nights and reindeer with horrific luminescent birth defects was my journey to my birth country a month ago. I think part of the reason why my love of Christmas was killed stone death was because... and here it goes, I'm preparing myself for a lynching... Australia doesn't seem to care about Christmas quite as much. There's a reason for this. You see, the reason why Christmas is such a huge deal in Britain is because it breaks up three months of solid winter. Days are shorter, everyone's freezing their tits off and it doesn't get any better until around April, and then it starts raining a lot. Having a big, dramatic festive season bang in the middle helps keep people going. And that is why on the last day of November, many British people were already wishing me a merry Christmas. That is why all the shop fronts were bedecked with Christmas finery even though most people hadn't even thought of buying presents yet. While Australia also jumps the gun on celebrating, it doesn't need to get any more festive than putting up some tacky plastic decorations because it's the beginning of summer and there's plenty more opportunities to get pissed and do dumb shit. That's like the definition of summer- everyone getting drunk and stupid while wearing very little clothing. Of course, the same happens in the U.K, but it's harder to muck around when you're wearing 3+ layers and a knitted Christmas jumper. If Australia had a mandatory item of Christmas clothing, it'd probably be a pair of festive budgie smugglers.
Anyway, what I'm trying my best to get at (even though I'm clearly getting sidetracked by various tangents) is that everyone should try to experience a full English Christmas. You know, the stereotypical kind with the 7 foot tree, a huge goose, a roaring fire and an umpteenth viewing of The Wizard of Oz. I had an early Christmas with the family I stayed with before leaving, and although it wasn't the whole shebang, it was enough to lift my spirits and make me feel quite loving towards my fellow humans (which usually grosses me out). So now that I'm back in this horrifically hot country, I've made an effort to make my Christmas more special. I set up my own Christmas tree (Mum wanted to stick to a very modern "tree" made out of driftwood painted gold, which is all well and good, but again, I'm a traditionalist), made a playlist of carols, replaced my usual snack with a mince pie/cup of tea and sat watching It's A Wonderful Life while wrapping the last of my presents. It's not much compared to what I know others are experiencing, but being able to indulge in the holiday spirit even a little is making me a lot happier this year. I know I'm not going to get spoiled and I never really expect much from this time of year, because honestly, we don't have the income for it, but I think creating an atmosphere is enough. Creating a sense of anticipation is enough. And while I'm too old to believe in Father Christmas, I may leave out some milk and a mince pie... just kidding. I'm going to eat them, laugh and go to bed. Stupid fat red fucker.
Merry Christmas everyone. While I know Christmas doesn't work out for everyone, I hope you all take the time to appreciate your families, whether your biological one or the friends you chose to be your family. Peace on earth and all that shit, and know that "merry" is now my code for "I'm a little bit wasted".
Tuesday 18 December 2012
A Brief Explanation (I Lied, It's Not Brief) Regarding The Significance of Change
Welcome, everyone, to my newest personal endeavor- an attempt to start a weekly updated blog, in order to a) encourage me to write and b) to satisfy the legion of people who have requested I move my ramblings from Facebook to someone more "professional" (okay, not a legion. Perhaps about fifteen people. Less. But trust me, when you're as narcissistic as I am, even a small amount of people showing interest in my work is a godsend. Also, just because this is my so-called "proper blog" does not mean I will make any less dick jokes. Or reduce my mentions of the word "ass"). Those of you who have followed me over from Facebook will hopefully know what to expect; many run-on sentences, the occasional spelling error (and frantic apologies/cursing the lack of power to edit statuses), vulgarity and veiled threats towards family pets. Those of you who somehowstumbled across this on your own (just kidding, I think we both know that there's no way you possibly exist. Please shoo. Also, here's something I forgot on the list of expectations- my stunning overuse of brackets. And dashes. And my complete disregard for the more complex rules of grammar. And my reliance on fragments. This joke is getting old now, so I'm going to stop), well, I expect by the time you finish this sentence, you'll probably be requesting a lobotomy so you can wipe this collection of bizarre turns-of-phrase and grammatical mishaps only understood by the severely mentally ill from your memories. Or you'll find it perversely enjoyable. Whatever floats your boat... unless you have some aversion towards boats, or floating. If that is the case, please write on a piece of paper your preferred method of transport/state of being, shred it in a blender, bake it into a quiche, eat it and mail me whatever is expelled from your bowels at the end of the process. Wow, writing for an audience is hard work.
I have been putting off this agonising task for about a week after returning from the U.K, as although I promised myself that I would start blogging once I hit home soil, I hit a mental blank regarding topics to write about. Of course, I'd already assume that like most of my spontaneously word-vomits, I would be either ranting about something hilariously unimportant or providing limited insight on a mundane experience. However, today I manned up and addressed that block by reading through old correspondences.... and realised that the one constant in my life is that nothing ever remains constant. That's where the title of this blog comes from, by the way- my belief that nothing ever lasts forever and that the entire human race is in a transient state. Basically, this means that all problems eventually work themselves out, become insignificant or we die. While it's a morbid belief, it does stop me becoming one of those people who is gradually ostracized by their nearest and dearest for their inability to cope with the most minute of hurdles in their existence. Or a person that can't fucking stop whining. There is nothing I can't stand more than a person who, instead of getting on with their little existence, constantly bends the ears of those around them with their self-pitying bullshit. From years of attacking my social ineptitude from different angles, I can safely say that a lack of significant relationships stems from an inability to move beyond obsessing over your own stupid bullshit. Moving past said bullshit is as easy as admitting that one day, we'll all be dead and no one will care that you haven't had sex in three months, or that you thought you looked fatter than usual today, or that the supposed love of your life can't remember your birthday. Truthfully, most people barely care about that shit while you're alive. So, you may as well just power through, get over it and try to have fun. Feeling upset at times is a given, but it doesn't mean that you need to whittle your whole world down to the size of your anus.
One of the biggest lies that we tell ourselves is that there are things that exist in this world that are immune to change. Everything from social conventions to your relationship with your mother are in a constant state of transformation. It may be a minute difference, such as how all of your cells in your body are replaced every 7 to 10 years without your knowledge (I personally find that a little spooky- this, above everything else, proves that no one can remain the same person their entire lives), or something as obvious as shitting out a live mouse instead of that corn you ate for dinner last night. I have no idea if that last thing has ever happened to someone, but the point is, you can't count on anything to remain constant. It's certainly romantic and charming to imagine that things like love and bravery remain the same forever, but they don't. Feelings and concepts of feelings change. People leave or die. Shit happens, and you can't beat yourself up about it, because it happens to everyone and you are not an exception. That is why I'm trying my hardest at the moment to move beyond judging those around me, because to be fair, I have no right at all. They are changing, I will always change and human beings will always have the capacity to commit atrocious acts.
However, there's no point in letting this revelation making you bitter. I would say that if most people truly believed that they were insignificant and would never stay the same, they'd probably give up on trying to do what's considered morally right. I mean, morality is such a sensitive issue anyway- everyone has their own concept of what it should be. I'd say there's probably more than ten people in this world that could completely rationalise shagging a sheep as for the greater good of the human race, and they wouldn't all live in New Zealand or Wales. But, while recognising all this, there's another revelation to consider... that there's no point making your own existence more miserable by being a complete and utter dick towards other people. The great Jim Jeffries once simplified the Bible down to "try not to be a cunt", and it's a pretty fundamental part of the human existence. Although there's probably no great divine power dolling out punishments to the worse factions of our weird and wonderful race, there's still a certain amount of satisfaction that comes from knowing that you have lived a life where you have minimised the pain you have caused others. And if you can't recognise that, you're probably a sociopath, and I'll ask you very kindly to admit yourself to a psychiatrist rather than hunt me down and use my scooped-out skull as a portable toilet.
Looking back over this blog post, I'll admit that the subject matter got away from me a bit and I've just basically rambled on about my personal beliefs for a page and a half. If you like that, thank you, it'll probably be a regular thing. If you didn't, I apologise, it'll probably be a regular thing. I doubt this will get particularly well-followed, but it's at least giving me an excuse to write and to address the strange parts of my existence that probably make sense to at least ten percent of the population. I'd thank you for reading, but let's face it, I did most of the hard work here. Hopefully I'll stick at this, but only time and a willingness to form callouses on the tips of my fingers (I type weirdly) will tell.
I have been putting off this agonising task for about a week after returning from the U.K, as although I promised myself that I would start blogging once I hit home soil, I hit a mental blank regarding topics to write about. Of course, I'd already assume that like most of my spontaneously word-vomits, I would be either ranting about something hilariously unimportant or providing limited insight on a mundane experience. However, today I manned up and addressed that block by reading through old correspondences.... and realised that the one constant in my life is that nothing ever remains constant. That's where the title of this blog comes from, by the way- my belief that nothing ever lasts forever and that the entire human race is in a transient state. Basically, this means that all problems eventually work themselves out, become insignificant or we die. While it's a morbid belief, it does stop me becoming one of those people who is gradually ostracized by their nearest and dearest for their inability to cope with the most minute of hurdles in their existence. Or a person that can't fucking stop whining. There is nothing I can't stand more than a person who, instead of getting on with their little existence, constantly bends the ears of those around them with their self-pitying bullshit. From years of attacking my social ineptitude from different angles, I can safely say that a lack of significant relationships stems from an inability to move beyond obsessing over your own stupid bullshit. Moving past said bullshit is as easy as admitting that one day, we'll all be dead and no one will care that you haven't had sex in three months, or that you thought you looked fatter than usual today, or that the supposed love of your life can't remember your birthday. Truthfully, most people barely care about that shit while you're alive. So, you may as well just power through, get over it and try to have fun. Feeling upset at times is a given, but it doesn't mean that you need to whittle your whole world down to the size of your anus.
One of the biggest lies that we tell ourselves is that there are things that exist in this world that are immune to change. Everything from social conventions to your relationship with your mother are in a constant state of transformation. It may be a minute difference, such as how all of your cells in your body are replaced every 7 to 10 years without your knowledge (I personally find that a little spooky- this, above everything else, proves that no one can remain the same person their entire lives), or something as obvious as shitting out a live mouse instead of that corn you ate for dinner last night. I have no idea if that last thing has ever happened to someone, but the point is, you can't count on anything to remain constant. It's certainly romantic and charming to imagine that things like love and bravery remain the same forever, but they don't. Feelings and concepts of feelings change. People leave or die. Shit happens, and you can't beat yourself up about it, because it happens to everyone and you are not an exception. That is why I'm trying my hardest at the moment to move beyond judging those around me, because to be fair, I have no right at all. They are changing, I will always change and human beings will always have the capacity to commit atrocious acts.
However, there's no point in letting this revelation making you bitter. I would say that if most people truly believed that they were insignificant and would never stay the same, they'd probably give up on trying to do what's considered morally right. I mean, morality is such a sensitive issue anyway- everyone has their own concept of what it should be. I'd say there's probably more than ten people in this world that could completely rationalise shagging a sheep as for the greater good of the human race, and they wouldn't all live in New Zealand or Wales. But, while recognising all this, there's another revelation to consider... that there's no point making your own existence more miserable by being a complete and utter dick towards other people. The great Jim Jeffries once simplified the Bible down to "try not to be a cunt", and it's a pretty fundamental part of the human existence. Although there's probably no great divine power dolling out punishments to the worse factions of our weird and wonderful race, there's still a certain amount of satisfaction that comes from knowing that you have lived a life where you have minimised the pain you have caused others. And if you can't recognise that, you're probably a sociopath, and I'll ask you very kindly to admit yourself to a psychiatrist rather than hunt me down and use my scooped-out skull as a portable toilet.
Looking back over this blog post, I'll admit that the subject matter got away from me a bit and I've just basically rambled on about my personal beliefs for a page and a half. If you like that, thank you, it'll probably be a regular thing. If you didn't, I apologise, it'll probably be a regular thing. I doubt this will get particularly well-followed, but it's at least giving me an excuse to write and to address the strange parts of my existence that probably make sense to at least ten percent of the population. I'd thank you for reading, but let's face it, I did most of the hard work here. Hopefully I'll stick at this, but only time and a willingness to form callouses on the tips of my fingers (I type weirdly) will tell.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)