There’s a simple philosophy to living a kickass life that I’d like to share today. It’s an idea that stuck in my brain from some crappy movie I sat through one day while arguing vociferously with the flies who repeatedly kept landing on my body. Apparently I’m deliciously sweet, or a massive piece of shit. The jury is still out…
Although Hollywood is probably the greatest scourge on humanity when it comes to evolving the unlimited potential contained within the human-animal, every once in a while a snippet of brilliance can be gleaned from the mindlessly formulaic drivel the entertainment industry pumps out on a continuous basis.
The clip went down something like this…
Some old dude turned to a hottie at the bar, and unabashedly uttered the lamest greeting a male could proffer a potential suitor. Knowing he was way out of her prissy league, he walked over anyway, and engaged conversation. When she asked him to extrapolate the odds of him being successful in his endeavour to get into her pants, he confidently replied a bold 50/50, with an explanation…
It either happens, or it doesn’t — the odds on absolutely everything in life boil down to a 50/50 chance.
I like that.
When it comes to accomplishing anything on this wacky planet, ya pretty much just gotta go for it, no matter how wild, weird, or unrealistic your goals my be. All the fancy technologies and structural marvels that exits around us today were all probably deemed “impossible” at some point by a closed-minded douchebag lacking the ability to see anything outside his pathetic little ego-box. But the wonders exist around us nonetheless, along with a steady supply of fuckers dining on crow.
There’s one thing I know for certain when it comes to playing the odds — you have a ZERO percent chance for success when you sit on your ass and do nothing. When you dive into the game, the 50/50 thing is kinda cool — it’ll either happen for you, or it won’t, so there’s no sense in overthinking or worrying about whatever hurdles you need to surmount. A solution exists for every problem — they are facets of the same coin, forever entangled.
New adventure is always a single decision away. But talking about grandiose plans won’t do fuck all for you until you take action. When you’re scared about the boneheaded idea rattlin’ around in your noggin’, you’re probably on the right track. But if you don’t keep moving, no matter how ideal those rails may seem, there’s always the possibility of getting run over by a faster-moving train.
So I say jump onto the beaten up handcar, and start pumping away. Small progress is a lot more fun than no progress. And you never know what awaits around the next bend. Don’t let Google maps sway you — there’s a fifty-fifty chance their stupid charts are completely fucking wrong.
I used to work a job where it seemed my boss hardly ever showed up. There was always a “legitimate” reason of course. Illness, family emergencies, testicles caught in the leafblower, whatever. No matter how tired or overworked I was, whenever he asked me to cover a shift, I always said yes, despite my heart crying out, “Fuck no! Stop putting this on me. I never really wanted to work a day in my life to begin with, asshole, so leave me the fuck alone!”
I’ve never been very good at saying no to people, but I never really clued in how damaging it’s been to my psyche over the years.
I started a new job recently based on a simple agreement — I only work 3 days a week. Those days are on the weekend, the busiest times, and I put in 10-12 hours a shift while there. I’m still basically a full-time slave, from an hourly perspective, but I have the freedom of 4 days off a week to pursue my truer passions.
4 days off also allows me to adequately decompress from slavery. Each Friday I go back to work, I almost feel like it’s a new job, so I do my work eagerly and enthusiastically. Ultimately it’s a win-win situation for all — if there is such a way to describe engaging in menial work for stupid fucking paper dollars.
When I was asked last week to cover a Monday shift, supposedly for only 5 hours, I agreed. My bosses are hard-working people, and they wanted a day to spend at the beach with visiting family. I was happy to help.
The only problem was I didn’t bother taking a look at the schedule. Once I realized the incompetent jackasses coming in at 5 o’clock couldn’t adequately handle the dinner rush, I had no choice but to stay. A few hours of “being a nice guy,” turned into a 10-hour shift of “get me the fuck out of this building forever.”
So now it’s Thursday, and instead of feeling like I made any headway accomplishing other goals, I’m dreading the weekend. My mindset is anxious and stressed, as I feel the need to rush every single thing I want to get done today.
3 days a week off doesn’t fucking cut it for me anymore.
Before you call me I’m a whiner, and go on a rant about how you haven’t had a day off in two weeks, let me share this with you first…
I know what it’s like to put in 80-hour work weeks. I know what it’s like to sleep 5 hours a night for years on end because “shit needs to get done.” I know how to do all of it with a big smile on my face, and not a single complaint about fatigue or exhaustion. I’ve never suggested anyone “feel sorry for me” because I’ve been on my feet for 16-hours without a break.
The point of this post has nothing to do with shitty jobs or stupid responsibility.
It has to do with the power of saying “NO,” perhaps one of the most important words that gets underutilized on this planet.
We all want to be helpful. We all want to make others happy. And we all know what it’s like to be let down by someone we thought we could rely on.
But the truth of the matter is, if your heart isn’t in agreement with your mouth, the only creature who’s going to feel tormented is you.
If you wanna agree to stupid shit, then go all in. Put whatever resentments you have aside, and fucking do it. If you’re body and mind are pissed at you for being a spineless twat who gets walked all over time and time again, all you’ll end up doing is slowly destroying yourself from the inside out.
It’s easy to feel like you’ve let someone down by saying no. It’s easy to feel guilty or ashamed when putting your personal agenda first. But when you agree to something at the cost of your own sanity, on some level everyone ends up a loser, whether it’s you feeling like a victim, or the bitter, angry work you do to fulfill your verbal contract.
If I had been told a 10-hour shift was in order that day, this writing would probably not exist. I would have done it with a big smile on my face, and be done with it. It’s the feeling of being duped into something unwanted that has ultimately cheesed me off over the course of the week.
My personality has been conditioned over the years to say yes to everyone — anytime, anywhere, whatever they need. It took a lifetime to realize that always trying to be a “dependable” guy has filled my soul with a lot of ragey bitterness.
I truly do want to be of service to others in need, but I also realize that I don’t respect people who can’t follow through with the commitments they’ve made, always pawning shit on suckers like me. I guess I’m still a judgmental asshole, quel surpise.
We all need a hand from time to time, and there’s no shame in asking for help. But only do it when no other option seems possible. Helping is much more fun when you can do it for someone truly in need — when you can go all in to make their situation better, with nary a thought of being deprived of personal time.
For the rest of us doormats, try practicing this word from time to time, and maybe you’ll find a little more contentment within your soul, bullshit guilt be damned…
P.S. There are a few other variations to consider:
Suck my balls!
Not bloody likely, asshole!
Munch my ass.
No thanks, dickwad.
Sorry, I’m busy bangin’ your mom that day.
I don’t know about you, but I feel more liberated already…
What do you do when you’re a stranger in a strange land?
Pretty simple, I guess…
You roll with the natives. Blend in. Adapt. Learn the basic customs and protocols. You make note of every major rule “normal” people conform to, and try to play their game the best you can, without rippling too much water during your learning curve.
But what if you come to the realization the new land sucks — I mean really fucking sucks? What if you’ve done your best to live amicably among the denizens, but you ultimately find their lifestyle unbearable and intolerable? What if you find yourself amongst a collective so hopelessly indoctrinated to idiotic rules, rituals, and modalities of thinking, that each day you spend with them seems like a living fucking hell?
The most obvious answer is you get the fuck out. As quickly as you can.
A simple solution, indeed, unless you’re no longer able to locate the exit door — either because you can’t remember where it is, or because it’s been intentionally hidden from you.
So you’re stuck. The only thing you can do is “make the most of it.” You tell yourself all kinds of fluffy, happy bullshit to turn your days of torment into something tolerable. You do the best you can to mitigate the pervasive insanity that no one seems to question, and try to keep your mind occupied on the little things that still put a smile on your face, why robotically trudging through your duties and responsibilities necessary for survival.
But how long can you keep it up? How long before you end up losing your fucking mind, pretending to give a shit about things that don’t excite you in the least? How many more conversations about politics and weather can you endure before considering swallowing a bullet, or taking a fifty-foot swan dive off a tall bridge?
I don’t know about you, but I feel like I’m nearing my quota…
Earth is a fascinating planet. No question about that. The physical experiences we can collect here are innumerable. There’s always something incredible waiting around the corner. The only fucking problem is that we’ve been forced into a situation that is completely unnatural to our species. We’ve built up this ridiculous construct around ourselves called society, and if we’re unwilling to play its game, we quickly become labelled outsiders, freaks, losers, whiners, manic-depressives, or a hundred other names to denote creatures dispassionate about following the herd.
Our addiction to the hoarding of paper dollars plays a big role in our collective illness. Our passions are hindered because of it, and our desires are warped by it. When someone tells me a story about working 3 jobs to save enough money for a month long vacation overseas, something in my heart screams out, “that ain’t fuckin’ right!”
How much time do we spend doing things we don’t want to do for a small window of opportunity to experience “freedom?” If you take this job, Bill, we’ll give you 2 weeks paid vacation time per year. 14 whole days, eh? Wow, sign me up! 50 weeks of annual drudgery in your piece-of-shit criminal corporation sounds like an ideal way for me to wile away my life.
If you choose to own your own business, you’re probably not even gonna get that much. Unless you’re exploiting other people for slave-wages, I guarantee an independent business won’t be providing you any greater degree of freedom from the system.
Over my formative years, I really gravitated toward art — drawing, painting, building shit, you name it. When I discovered my first airbrush, the possibilities before me seemed limitless. After 15 years of 16-hour days to build up a successful mural business, I woke one morning to learn something disconcerting — I fucking hate painting. Not because of the practice itself, but because of its attachment to money. Something I loved ended up becoming a loathsome routine for paying bills and putting food on the table.
Whenever I try to sit down to paint something these days, my entire system screams out I’m wasting my time. I’m not fast enough, not efficient enough, not good enough, and no one will give a shit about the piece at the end of the day, so why bother? None of those factors are indeed legitimate, but they’ve become entangled emotionally in my body because of all the years I’ve spent selling art for survival.
Cooking is another example. Truthfully, I fucking love it. When I lived for 6 months with my Hare Krishna buddies in Hawaii, I took over the job of cooking a giant meal for 30 or more guests every Saturday. No one asked me to do it, and no one paid me to do it — it was something I volunteered for. Though people helped out with some of the items on my ever-changing menus, I was much happier working by my lonesome. Friday night was my most exciting time of the week — planning out newer and weirder ideas to feast upon. It never felt like a chore, and I never dreaded a Saturday cooking frenzy.
Working in a kitchen here in Canada ain’t quite the same. It feels a lot like the mural thing again — rush, rush, rush, from one order to the next. It doesn’t take long for the excitement of a new menu in a new restaurant to wear off, transforming the process into a numbing routine of pumping out a product quickly and efficiently, all in the name of making a buck or two.
Opening my own restaurant isn’t even a thought I’d consider anymore. I don’t want cooking to fall into the same abyss my love for art did.
With all that whining aside, I guess it’s about time to find some new solutions to living a happy life. If everyone else is content to play this stupid fucking game, more power to them. Me, I’m at my wit’s end. If escape ain’t possible, the only viable alternative is to make up a new strategy.
What that might be, I have no clue at the moment. I’m close to considering not publishing my new book, just so I don’t attach a perverse monetary association to it. Maybe I’m better off giving it away for free. Maybe I’m better off doing everything for free, as long as I’m enjoying what I’m doing. Maybe the solution is to ditch every material possession I own, and go wander the streets like a fucking hobo. I’m pretty close to that state as it is, so why not go the whole nine yards?
I don’t fucking know.
But it’s late, and my eyes are growing weary. With any luck, a lucid dream awaits tonight. Perhaps I’ll find some solutions there. Though, truthfully, the last thing I want to do is contaminate my alternate dimensional travels with shitty Earth life. I fucking love exploring the astral realm. It’s one of the last things that keeps my hope of freedom alive. Perhaps the mysterious exit door off this stupid planet is entangled there somewhere.
I’m not done lookin’ just yet…
Either way, this is my last ride on the JunkieSphere. The carnival doesn’t excite me anymore. I’m sick of the candy floss, and I don’t relate well to the pinheads wandering the midway. It was a fun 10,000 incarnations on this blue rock, but I’m getting off the carousel for good this time. Cooler worlds await.
Maybe we’ll meet again one day somewhere else in the Universe — in a place less fucked up and closed-minded than this insane asylum.
I spent 15 years of my life building a mural painting business — and far more than that engaged in fine art, design work, and general artsy projects — only to realize a horrible truth…
I’m a fucking hack. I have no clue what I’m doing.
This realization came to me when attempting to illustrate a few drawings for the next ridiculous book I plan to publish. I’m brutal at cartooning. I have no talent whatsoever. I feel like a pencil is a foreign object to me.
Those thoughts reminded me of a time I got invited to draw caricatures for an open- house at a resort I used to make signs for. I agreed, assuming I would excel at it — but the reality of the situation proved quite different…
I fucking sucked — badly… like a trainee Vietnamese hooker.
I arrived at the resort that day bubbly and eager — quickly finding my place to set up shop. While doing a test drawing with a marker on a sketch pad for the first time, I quickly learned there was no way in hell to get through the next 2 hours without a massive degree of embarrassment and ego diminishment.
I was fucked.
My only hope was to play Unabomber sketch artist — you know, where you draw everyone wearing giant sunglasses and a hoodie. That strategy was my perceived saviour at the time.
Jesus, what the fuck did I just get myself into?
Although it was a volunteer gig, I had no right being there.
I quickly made use of personality and charm to fumble through the onslaught of miniature humans lined up for inked immortalization. I thanked my lucky stars each “client” was a kid. I would have developed many enemies that day if adults sat before me, hoping to look pretty by my artistic hand.
The kiddies didn’t give a shit how accurately I rendered their faces — they were more pumped on whatever fantastical situation I could land their bodies into, through poorly stroked black marker.*
(*Note to self: Bread joke tomorrow about stroking black things)
Dune buggies, spider-men, and fairies dominated the themes — although the dune buggy idea was something I repeatedly suggested because of a stupid joke I recalled from a Simpson’s episode. Though I didn’t really know how to draw a single one of any of the elements I moronically kept asking my clientele to suggest, it turned out no one gave a shit. Each o’ the smallfries were happy with the giant piece of paper I tore off to give them as a horrible memento of my talentless efforts.
I got invited back the next year by popular demand of my “satisfied” customers. Many of the kiddies even had their artsy abominations still pinned to their walls, haha. Some bright-light gave me a tip jar the second year, and I made a decent buck for the meaningless gig I drove 2 hours to get to. Go figure.
It’s true what I said earlier about art. I really have no clue what I’m doing, despite years of experience. Dedicated effort ultimately comes down to letting instinct and muscle memory take over at a certain point — like playing guitar, trusting a tennis swing, or picking up chicks at the bar. When we allow our big brains to get in the way, that’s when shit goes sideways.
So today I spent a few hours getting acquainted with my pencil and eraser again, hoping to get Original Sin finished. And I realized why there was no need to feel frustrated over cartooning — because I’ve never really done it before, caricature stupidity aside.
We only get better at shit is when we engage it consistently.
Don’t we always?
Ya gotta jump into the muck sometimes, and just fucking do it. Instead of feeling frustration from the get-go for not being perfect at a thing you’ve never done before, cut yourself some slack. Before long, you’ll realize just how quickly you can rock whatever scenario you give your attention to.
I don’t need a Jerry’s Final Thought comment here to tell you that doing what you truly love to do should have no attachment to fear, apprehension, or intimidation. If you love it, then fucking do it. If all you care about is making a buck down the road, then maybe your project ain’t quite the right gig for you. I dunno, I could be wrong.
Life is about diving balls deep sometimes, the future be damned.
Not sure about you, but I just dropped my hawaiian shorts…
Okay, so I never did end up buying crack, and I don’t really know any drug-dealers. Whatever. Ya gotta fancy up the writin’ every once in a while with some tall tales, just for the fun of it.
I did end up doing the rest of the pointless things I said I was gonna do.
Let’s consider them for a moment — from the perspective of people in this world that always need to accomplish something, achieve a goal, or reach whatever plateau they’ve become fixated upon.
Just so you’re fairly warned, there’s the possibility of hypocritical ramble ahead, too. Deal with it…
A little backstory first…
One reason I’ve introduced this animal back into my diet has to do with a quest for self-sufficiency. Perhaps slaughtering animals for food isn’t the most ideal thing in the world, but we hardly live in an ideal world. If the indigenous tribes who wandered these lands before us could demonstrate a balanced co-existence with the animals that sustained them, I’m sure I can as well.
Whether I’m killing lettuce, or catching a fish, I’m still a murderer. Over-the-top spiritual douchebags never want to acknowledge the basic truth that they still kill shit to survive. They never consider all the rodents or insects that get stacked up as collateral damage to their “enlightened” dietary lifestyles. With the exception of Twinkies, every morsel of food we eat has been alive somewhere along the way — there’s no way to get around killing something for sustenance unless you learn to survive on prana and rainwater. Even then, you’re probably still wiping out new generations of microbes that only want the same opportunity to thrive as you do, despite your considerations of them being inconsequential.
Just because broccoli doesn’t cry out as you sever it from the plant, doesn’t mean it can’t feel pain. The plant would prefer to live intact, I’m fucking sure of that. In fact, broccoli is the pre-flowered bulk that hasn’t yet reached seed-bearing stage, so people munching on it are into the equivalent of eating plant veal. Fucking monsters!!
I don’t know why I felt the need to justify eating small amounts of flesh again, but the deed is done. Ironically it had nothing to do with why I went fishing today.
My goal was far more pointless — to stand under a blue sky, radiant sun, and revel in an hour or two by the river. There’s an underlying meditative quality about repeatedly casting a line into the waters that most fisherpeople probably never consciously acknowledge, and likely can’t put into words. It calms the mind and soothes the soul. Mine, anyway. I guess I can’t speak for anyone else.
I caught nothing this day. And that’s why it was so perfect. The exercise of throwing a lure in the water over and over produced none of the results that others might consider their reason for engagement.
From the standpoint of someone wanting to eat fresh fish, the time I spent was futile. From the standpoint of someone wanting to engage in an activity of joy, my time was glorious. Absolutely pointless, but fucking glorious.
Considering I’m scared shitless every time I solo, one might perceive my participation in this activity as ridiculous. As I fired up my engine today, I knew there was nowhere I needed to go. I had no destination awaiting me, and no plan of action after leaving the confines of the harbour.
That’s why it was perfect. Completely pointless, and perfect.
You might say that floating under the sun was part of my agenda, that getting some much needed practice was part of my motivation, or mention a possible dozen other “reasons” for doing what I did.
But you would be wrong. My only thought was to go sailing. Just for the fun of it. So that’s what I did. And you know what? It fucking rocked. It was pointless, and it rocked.
You wanna talk about an exercise in futility? Most people would consider running as a form of torture. People do it to stay in shape, burn calories, or test their levels of endurance, pushing personal limits as far as they can. But not a lot of them think of it as fun.
I’ve gone running in the past for all those reasons. Not today though. My only thought was to strip half naked and go for a jaunt through the woods, just for the pure pleasure of it. And I did. The sun was shining, the flowers were fragrant, and little critters were scampering about everywhere. What could be more perfect? I didn’t care one iota how far I was running, what health benefits were being accrued, or anything that had to do with weight loss. I wanted to do it, I did it, and I loved it.
It was also completely fucking pointless to further any fate, destiny, or meaning I might have chosen to impose on my life. This one was about rock’n’roll, and comic books, and bubble gum. Hoo hoo hoo…
Nah, I never got to that, but I did substitute a beach walk instead. The weather’s finally warmer, but the water’s frigid. As I splashed my feet through the waves, I thought to myself, “I’d love to jump in, but it’s too cold. It’ll warm up soon enough, I guess…”
Quickly catching myself living in an imaginary future, ignoring my immediate, more important whims, an awesome thing happened — I no longer needed to think. I dove in like some retard in a polar bear club lacking basic common sense. Within seconds though, that cool refreshing water forced a giant smile to my face. I scanned the 3-mile shoreline for even the slightest hint of another human. Not one. This glorious beach and body of water were mine today, all on an impulse of fun.
Icing on the Cake
To end a kick-ass day, the fair weather treated me to a spectacular sunset — a dynamic spectacle that could never be captured in a single digital image. The best I can share with you is a watered down experience of a light show that blew my mind.
Though you may consider it to be impossible to live footloose and fancy-free every day, there’s also nothing to stop you from thinking, “Hmm. What if it is possible?”
Everything’s possible, though most people would rather believe otherwise. Why? I’m not sure. But I do know that once we own our limitations, our limitations own us.
So whatever might be on your agenda today, give a moment’s consideration to the things in life that make you feel happy deep down in your core. If you don’t have the opportunity to experience them today, don’t sweat it. But the more you realize how ultimately meaningless your life is, the more time you’ll begin investing your free moments in those pointless activities you love.
That’s when you’ll start learning what real freedom is about. If you want to be a slave to destiny, that’s your call. Just know that the free-air of pointlessness is only a breath away.
What was it Nellie Mandela said?
“There is no passion to be found playing small — in settling for a life that is less than the one you are capable of living. There is no such thing as part freedom.”
I stumbled across an important truth today that I feel might be worthy of sharing. “Truth” might be an incorrect word, as nothing seems absolute in this reality, and “stumbled” might be inaccurate as well — I more or less smacked square into this one, like a dumbass walking into a telephone pole while staring into a smartphone.
Are you ready for my big-brain insight of the day?
Life is utterly fucking pointless.
Although that may seem like a negative sentiment, it’s actually the key to happiness, joy, and freedom.
So how do I explain this properly?
The only reason for doing anything is because you truly want to do it. If you’re acting out of guilt, insecurity, or some other ignoble motivation, you’re kinda fucked. Those roads will always land you in a hell-state, long before you clue in your toes are on fire.
You have no higher purpose, no soul-calling, no karma, and no obligation to be anything other than whatever tickles your fancy in the present moment. There’s no fate, no destiny, no gameplan devised by God. Every future consideration you have about achieving your “life-calling” will end up diminishing the most important time you’ll ever have in the world…
Right here, right now.
When we stop thinking about future goals, past grievances, or any other stress factor under the sun, we suddenly realize we’re at peace. And it doesn’t matter what situation you’re in — living as a millionaire with hookers by your side, or sinking into a murky pit of quicksand. When you shut down projected thought, peace ensues.
Sure, no one wants to sink in quicksand, but it’s the fear of dying in the murky mess that makes the situation unwanted — pretty much like every other scenario in life. Whether you’ve formulated a grand design for peace and harmony down the road, or you stress out over upcoming bills, it matters not. Contriving a future that doesn’t exist is a glorious waste of fucking time.
The ride we call life is much shorter than we perceive it to be. And it can end in a heartbeat, literally, without warning. We have to take what little time we have and live it to the fullest — appreciate all the little things that make sucking in oxygen worthwhile… appreciate our friends, family, and every single weirdo that crosses our paths… appreciate every sound, smell, taste and texture… appreciate every strange nuance that, for whatever reason, humanity has labelled an “annoyance.”
There will always be mornings when opening your eyes, or getting out of bed, seems like a futile task. On those days, we might say to ourselves, “Why fucking bother? There’s nothing I’m going to accomplish that’s going to make a lick of difference in this twisted reality. I have no reason to play this game anymore.”
And you’re exactly right.
Even if you complete your mission to abolish war, homelessness, and poverty — making your name a household item that generations will remember for centuries to come — you’re bodysuit is still gonna crumble and die in a hundred years or less, and you’ll be nothing more than another footnote in the pages of humanity. One more memory that time will slowly forget.
So fuck analyzing the motivations or reasoning behind any of your actions. Greet each day as if it were your last. If you knew you were gonna die in 12 hours, how would you spend the afternoon? The answers you provide will give some insight into what truly makes you happy. You might even realize that the piddliest, dumbest of things that you want to do or try one last time, will bring more “purpose” to your life than saving the fucking world.
Go do those first, and giveth not a fuck about RRSP’s, the stolen bologna sandwich at work, or the new alternator your shitbox car is in desperate need of. Go live for once. I mean really fucking live! 20 grand in the bank doesn’t mean jackshit when a massive brain aneurysm prevents you from spending a single cent of it.
The sun is out. I’m going fishing. Then running. Then sailing. Then I might go smoke some crack. If anyone knows where I can procure some, lemme know. If I don’t do the crack thing, then maybe I’ll just wander the beach for a few hours, and be grateful for my last day on Earth, which it may very well be.
Cooking up a daily soup of activity is utterly pointless unless we learn once again to savour each and every sip of our brew. Don’t cook the stew because you want leftovers to feed you tomorrow, do it because you want to relish its taste today.
At some point, you’re gonna be taking one last bite of life. Every action you engage in has the potential of being that last nibble, so start learning to enjoy each of them with the full awareness of an intentional being, lost in the wonder of the moment.
And maybe when you’re done eating, we’ll go smoke some crack.
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.
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.