I marvel daily at my own narcissism. I have read others’ entries and wonder how it is they could be so altruistic in their writing, when all I can think about is myself. My reaction to things. How my pussy feels about this. What gets me wet. They are far better human beings than I.
“We’re surrounded by sadness, it’s all around, how can I be exempt? Immune? You always have to pay the bill, for knowledge or pleasure, and I don’t think I can afford the bill that’s coming.” — The Thought Gang, Tibor Fischer. Not a lot of soul in this book, but quite a lot of sound and furry – said the prof. The motherfucker can write, soul or not.
The character who said this, was one who had everything. Beautiful, brilliant, rich, “his effect on women was so extraordinary, you couldn’t even be jealous.” He offed himself because he believed that no man could have happiness forever. No man could be so fortunate, or make it so long, without being unhappy. He had, then killed himself because he couldn’t afford the bill that was coming to him after so much fortune.
Reading and thinking about death and suicide does funny things to a person. Usually, under high-stress situations, papers due, no time to waste, mental exhaustion, the only thing I can think to do is jerk off. Drop everything, and put my hand down my pants. Mental overstimulation does it to me too. Lame porn, even the most crass, given enough of it, clockwork orange style, will also produce said effect. Apparently, suicidal tendencies will also do it. Like right now. The transmission of words on a page about paying life’s bill, the stimulation of multiple suicides on the pages of a book, the contemplative exercises of how not to fuck up one’s own snuffing… makes me want to stop/drop/and roll without panties.
Maybe that’s why existentialism is a popular philosophical realm. Death comes to us all. And we want to find meaning before the big curtain drops. But we can’t. We don’t know. And supposedly, we would know if we died. The kicker is no one who has ever found out the answer has been able to tell anyone else, because, well, they’re dead. There’s no slipping of notes to friends, no cards under doorways, no phone call from the beyond. And it’s probably incomprehensible anyway – kind of like explaining quantum mechanics to a slug.
I feel like said slug, reading books written by far smarter people, rubbing elbows with those who can out-think, out-run, out-do me at every turn, hoping for some cosmic rubbing off of their shining glory. What good does it do me, really? I am still a lazy, good for nothing, sort-of academic who hasn’t achieved much. Thus the suicidal thoughts. At least I’ve discovered another way to get off in the process.
No comments:
Post a Comment