I was trying to figure out the exact amount of hours I would have to work for minimum wage in order to get an ipod that held enough music that I could put my entire cd collection and illegal downloads on so I didn't have to update the playlist every thirty minutes because there is nothing worth listening to at the time with 2 gigs and that forced me to realize two things about myself. One, that money has no inherent value to me. And two, that my baseline is doing the minimum required effort. Which in a pathetically expected and stereotypical way go hand in hand. ["We only work when we need the money..."]
I really don't understand the obsession with materialism, with the need to be successful, and the subsequential narcissism that follows. The bragging of who bought what, of who has what, of a stupid status symbols that are just a juvenile translation of who has the biggest dick. In the end, we all rot the same way and that's it. That's the futility of it. Why bother trying to immerse yourself in decadence and be successful in the eyes of society when in all reality every single one of us is an insignificant blip in the history of the universe? It's the kind of narcissim that reminds me, always, of Durden's line "Self improvement is masturbation. But self-destruction... now that just might be the answer." Self-destruction, perhaps, truthfully is. Not so much in the sense of watching your every fiber whither into nothingness becoming a monotonous mass of beige or slowly killing yourself, which I guess took me until this morning to realize [I am attempting to once again break a bad habit anyonecanseethesignsmittensinthesummertime that I'm keen on picking up when someone pulls one of the triggers and I know it's useless and blah, blah, blah, shut up. I know and I can deal.] but more so, at least in my case, an attempt to destroy all the insecurities and other personal flaws, a more so perceived self, I guess. I am not sure exactly how I am going to go about doing this, but it probably involves doing a lot more stupid, ridiculous shit that I don't do enough of anymore. Maybe I've gotten soft and afraid, or maybe because we never did stupid shit alone. [Actually that was the anytime any of us worked in groups...] "Yes, we are terrible for each other, but tell me your heart doesn't beat for a hurricane or a burning building. I'd rather die terrified than live forever." I just want to feel human and alive again. Summer is coming and I am almost free to fuck up my life how I choose.
I have been reading Julia Child's 'My Life in France' for the past two days and it's been one of those books that have clicked. Not in the same way that 'Ghost World' or ' Piercing' clicked- those were more so the 'you realize you can't really fucking stand yourself for extensive periods of times' kind. But just on a basic, instinctual level. One of those where you get it, but you just can't explain it to other people. One of those things that's in your blood, a weird cultural genetic coding. [Freud, have yourself a field day.] I don't know, but I'm starting to get myself, not necessarily because of it, but it plays a minor part in it- yes. I don't know I've just been thinking a lot these past days. Even more so [count-3] than normal, which is both good and terrible at the same time. I'm having to accept the fact that there are certain things I can't blame on my dad or lousy, destructive rather, relationships or traumatic childhood experiences and just have to stop using that shit as a scapegoat and be responsible for myself.
I'm sure someone, by someone I mean 50 million people, has said this before, but it's a little bizarre to wake up and realize that you've been sleeping with a stranger for 18 years and that you are just starting to figure out who they are. Maybe not in that specific context, but I'm sure every angst-ridden coming of age novel is based around that idea. It's ironic [cliche-cliche-cliche, click your heels together and take me home to hollywood] that I spend so much time trying to get how people tick and haven't even bothered to figure out how I work. I just assumed that I knew how that device worked, which makes me a pretentious, know-it-all fuck.
[I feel like another pop culture reference would be appropriate here, so insert something from 'Suicide Club' here, about the importance of relationship with self, and we're good.]
I think they know that I can't have a car, for reasons outside of the obvious lack of depth perception and inability to concentrate on asphalt and that I never bothered to even put out the effort to get a permit, is the fact that I would probably hunt people down at 2am and kidnap them to do ridiculous things. [Granted motorcycles always win out in Atlanta, where it appears I will be stuck for the rest of my existence.] Because if I'm going to waste my o-so-valuable cash on dead dinosaurs not at Fernbank, then it better be for something just as absurd.
Shoes off, let's get out of this place.
Honey, let's go dancing.


[Seriously, if you get every single pop culture reference, I don't know what to do about you. All I know is that 'Sock' will be much more appreciated because you're just as much of a loser as me.]

It's overrrrrrrrrrrrrr!