What, Me Worry?

Whenever I lack focus, I find it’s best to dive into something — anything, really — and use the activity as a form of meditation… something to clear the head of heavy, undesirable thoughts that cloud over the blue skies of happiness.

I don’t know about you, but dark thoughts often seem to be looming on my horizon. And I ain’t very good at playin’ zen guru — witnessing them for what they are, and allowing ’em to blow by overhead. Nah, not me. If I’m not begrudging the very nature of their existence, I’m busy trying to dominate them, ultimately getting caught in torrential mind storms that leave me cold, bitter, and miserable.

It’s easy to get stuck in your head. I’m the fucking king of mental torture. But that’s not a throne I can say I’m proud to sit upon. And we all get stuck in our castles of crazy conjecture from time to time, forgetting the drawbridge is only a single order away from opening.

Life is supposed to be fun.

If it’s not, then what’s the fucking point?

We’ve taken a potentially glorious game and turned it on its head. All the little things that are supposed to add sweetness and spice to our daily adventures have become irritations and annoyances — a flat tire, a dead phone battery, your girlfriend walking in on you as you spank your monkey… the list never ends. Instead of relishing all the subtle twists and turns in store for us each day, we struggle to get through them as quickly as possible, in order to get back to “relaxing” in front of the TV machine with a dozen beers, and a 5-dollar pizza cooked by retards down the street who ritually handle their testicles before kneading the GMO-laced dough of every pie they make.

I don’t even know what the fuck this piece is about. I just needed to sit down and write something, anything, to keep my thought-demons at bay.

One of those active demons goes by the name of Worry.

Worry has suggested many things to me lately about my stupid writing.

Worry informed I had nothing new to say. Worry informed me no one gives a shit to read the words I write. Worry informed me I had no interesting tales left to tell. Worry imparted a basic truth — that books, blogs, and stupid life philosophies are irrelevant to a society far happier smothering their brain cells in food, alcohol, and the bullshit drivel lovingly compiled for them by Netflix.

Perhaps Worry is correct.

Perhaps I should give up on new book ideas, and go back to earning money cooking substandard food for people with substandard ideas on living. Perhaps I should give up on ridiculous dreams of sailing around the world, living free, and suggesting to others that a functional society isn’t bound to the absurd habits, beliefs, and lifestyles we’ve been taught from birth.

Perhaps.

Or perhaps I should inform Worry it’s time to go fuck itself.

Perhaps all I needed was a kick in my own whiny ass, to foster a realization that we are the creators of the games we play. We facilitate our own heavens or hells. Misery and joy have always been two sides of the same coin.

If our stupid bodies are gonna crumble, rot, decay, and die, then now is the time to have some fun. There’s no future happiness waiting out there. It either happens in this moment, or fucking never.

Screw the rainclouds. Feels like a day to go trampin’ through the woods, to see what wonders lay in store. Clothing’s simple enough to dry out — much easier to deal with than a drowning soul.