Vanishing Point

Happy Arbitrary-Made-Up-Bullshit-Calendar-Adjustment Year!

It’s that wonderful time again when people declare life-changing resolutions that’ll last slightly longer than the box of beer I bought this morning after I swore I would never drink again.

So why does personal growth only become relevant upon opening that first page of the stupid free calendar the Pharmasave handed to you while waiting for your cooch-cream ointment prescription to be filled?

That’s what we’re here to hash out. Perspective is the name of the game today. So saddle in, and I’ll share some food for thought with you that’s slightly less toxic than the culinary abortion you pick up at the late-night drive-thru window at Taco Hell. Extra secret sauce, please, hold the placenta!

Let’s start this in the oddest way possible…

Did you know your grandparents? I didn’t. Grandfather died before I was born, and my only memory of Granny was with a swollen arm, dying in the hospital of cancer.

Maybe you were one of the lucky ones who still had a generation beyond your parents alive and kicking while you were old enough to remember spending time with. But what do you really remember about them? Candy? Toys? The musty smell of Bengay, Vicks VapoRub, or Castor Oil?

But did you know their hopes and dreams?

Did you know if they were happy or sad with the way their lives unfolded?

Did you ever once consider they were once a 20-something hottie, just like you, with an immortality complex, getting trashed at the bar, and picking up a random stranger for an evening of uninhibited debauchery and pleasure?

Did you know any of the endless struggles and victories they contended with on a daily basis — anecdotes that still only led them to the ultimate demise of their meat-suits?

And now what about THEIR parents?

I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who’s told me stories about hanging out with their Great-Grandmother. And definitely no stories about a Great Great Grandmother. The reason is obvious, of course — we only live so long. Unless your mom was a crack-whore who gave birth to you when she was 11, there’s zero chance you could have ever met those people.

[Editor’s Note: Crack wasn’t invented yet, stupid]

Granted, we may have shitty grainy pictures of them, the occassional oil-painting hanging on a wall, and endless stupid diagrams of family trees filled with branches of names that are physically and emotionally disconnected from the spiritual essence of the unique, vibrant humans that once roamed the Earth like you do now. But does that mean we knew them?

So lemme ask you this…

What happens in a hundred years from now?

I’m not talking about robots, flying cars, brain-chip implants, World War 9, or the invention of a new font that decidedly lets people know you’re being sarcastic in a text.

No, I’m talking about legacy.

Egotistical legacy.

Sorry to burst your bubble, snowflake, but in a hundred years, no one’s gonna give a flying fuck whether you’ve lived or died. All the nuances defining “the precious you” are about as ephemeral as the effectiveness of your 6th booster shot.

Yeah, sure, history books will record the Franklins, the Washingtons, the Davincis, the Buonarrotis, the Buddhas, the Christs, the Hitlers… But so fucking what? What do you really know about the people they truly were? Did they love cats? Were they chronic masturbators? Did they enjoy long walks on the beach, or long walks on water? Or were they nothing more than a footnote in a shitty syllabus and textbook you were forced to read between the dinging bells declaring recess?

I have no malice or morbid negativity in writing this diatribe. None of this is meant to bum you out or consider putting the filthy end of a sawed-off shotgun in your mouth.

It’s meant to set you free.

Perspective, my friends…

At the end of the day, your body is nothing more than food for maggots.

But your mind and your soul are right here, right now. The future doesn’t mean shit. Dying with a million dollars doesn’t mean shit. Driving your Ferrari while your big-titted model girlfriend snorts coke off your cock doesn’t mean shit. Your mansion’s gonna get sold 10 times over after you die from Lou Gehrig’s Disease, and after that it’ll get bulldozed or crumble to the fucking ground when Mother Nature reclaims the planet.

You know all that petty shit that stresses you out minute to minute, and leaves you emotionally exhausted, frustrated, anxious, and in a state of constant fear?

That’s right. Don’t mean shit. Nothing but a bunch of mental constructs you willingly allow to gnaw away at your spiritual testicles.

The only thing you’ll ever really control is not worrying about what you can’t control.

And that sets you free.

So what’s my holier-than-thou advice on resetting your time-stamp?

Go make someone smile. Go make someone laugh. Do shit not because you have to, but because you want to, and recognize the difference. Slam yourself balls deep into whatever passion calls out the loudest to you, and never worry again about the endless fear campaigns and emotional mindfucks that Planet Stupid has instilled within the hard drive of your puppet suit.

This reality is much, MUCH more than anything any “expert” jag-off on the Telescreen has convinced you to believe.

You’re gonna die, motherfucker, so stop wasting your time frenzied about tomorrow. It’s all right now.

Let the fake new year begin.

What's on your mind?