Saturday, December 24, 2011

And to All, a Happy New Shit.

It appears to me that, even for the more religious folk, Christmas has agreeably lost its moral center, preferring instead to be a holiday seized by capitalism, gift-giving, and PC twats.

No one likes Kwanzaa. Sorry.

But, even for them, they still kinda have an unearthly investment, whereby it remains a celebration of the savior, their lord, Jesus Christ.

Obligatory meme is obligatory.

So for those of us who've opted not to believe, how do we salvage this strange time of the year? I can't speak for all Atheists, as I've got a hint of Agnosticism.


But Christmas isn't really a shit time for me.

If the super cool duo of God & Jesus act as the precedent for human behavior in Christians, then without them, I'd need to create my own standard. Like I've said before on this blog, the precedent I live up to is whatever the most desired traits of human interaction is. This means high standards for compassion, understanding, logic, and Christina Hendricks.

Precedent set. Erection had.

With that compass in mind, I find a kind of fondness for Christmas. A nice little time in the year where, at least it seems, all the vices get washed away, everyone's shortcomings are ignored, and in their places are respect and admiration for whoever the hell you are. It's really kind of sweet.


A lot of this comes from my own nostalgia, where, being the youngest kid in the family, I was swarmed by presents and gifts. So it seems easy to think my wintry infatuation is associated with McDonald's Playpen and a fucking huge Megazord that I totally ended up breaking.

It's okay, Pokémon cards are just a few years away.

But those temporary pleasures have long since evaporated. And what's left is a silky residue of emotion, elicited not from the plastic comforts of China-crafted playthings, but from why it was they landed in my hands.

Why is there an annual ritual of getting inside a car, toiling through traffic, landing in a mall, being annoyed by similarly busied people, and getting inside a store to reluctantly purchase an object you know full well will be obsolete in 4 months?

And why is the process initiated, executed, and repeated with full willingness, motivated by no personal incentive, on a yearly basis?

It's the only time we actually care.

Ho, ho, ho, Merry Give a Fuck!

The highest regard is given to the most venerable characteristics of the human spirit, and everyone seems utterly willing to adhere to them. It's the epitome of everything I'd ever ask from humanity. All this because someone decided "Let's just fucking be nice this month", and attached a little baby Messiah to the whole thing.

Thanks chibi Jesus.

It's a testament to who we are, and what we can be. And it's certainly questionable. And strange. And unusual. And selfish. And retarded. But goddamnit, people actually give a fuck. And it's wonderful.

I wake up this morning to find I have no qualms with Christmas. I love everything about it. I embrace it, and hope to embody its spirit. I only have to ask, at this point...why isn't it Christmas everyday?

Merry Give a Fuck, everyone.

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

An Announcement.

So having written 2 blogs in the past 5 days (The 2nd coming soon), I am very quickly realizing something.

I am the opposite of Tupac.

Christina Hendricks is immensely attractive.


...deserves being posted in every blog.

Fucking yes.

I know, I'm saying some revolutionary shit man.

Indie Guevara.

But I'm going to work Christina Hendricks into every blog, and that is final.

Case closed.

Feminist Disclaimer: Hey, listen, at least this isn't Etsy-knitting shit, alright?

Sunday, December 18, 2011

Kinda like Tupac.

In the recent couple months, I've delved extensively into the Occupy movement. I've learned lots of things, met tons of people, and did what I've always loved.

Circle jerk?

Expressing myself, and being appreciated for it.

This has led to a remarkable boost of confidence, and a feeling that, frankly, I'm beginning to actualize the meaning of my existence.

It is within this beautiful little sentiment that an underlying concern nags at the ends of my consciousness, like a child tugging at the calf.

That you don't circle jerk enough?

I'm pretty sure I'm gonna die.


I mean, inevitably, yeah. But like within the next 5 years.

Of course, I have no viable evidence. The only thing I can successfully point to is that I have never been able to envision myself beyond the age of thirty. I have never been able to fathom the career I would have, the family I would be maintaining, or the adulterous slut I'd invariably ruin my marriage with.

But she'll be worth it.

Future slut aside, for all 21 years and 12 days of my life, I have not been able to crystallize my future, and though I hold no spiritual beliefs of any kind, I feel like whatever ether I trust in granting me foresight should have the vision if the vision was there.

But it isn't.

The psychological quirk that takes fetish about death is my intense discomfort with social success. As a kid, having been the victim of bullying, racial/social discrimination, and all-around dorkiness, I'd always felt like I would not achieve success. And that if I did, it would be sharply equalized by an ugly consequence.

'Cause for every time I thought I was a good writer, been a good person, or, goddamnit, thought I looked good that day, there was something waiting to destroy all of it.

A man with a van and two fingers.

This is probably a plausible, and perhaps more accurate, reason for the increased paranoia over my own mortality.

But I admit to innately preferring a young death.


I'll preface it with this:

The success of one's impression is directly affected by the age of that person. For example, a 5-year old reading material years beyond his age is more impressive than a 25 year old reading that same material. In some unwritten truth, there is a list of things you should already be capable of, and list of things you should not be capable of. To do the former is expected. But to do the latter is impressive.

And as you get older, your expected capabilities grow more vast, and you are less likely to impress anyone. After all, if you're 45 years old, shouldn't you be good at something? And if you're 10 years old, shouldn't you suck at everything?

Get better, twat.

Having established that, if my self-imposed purpose in life is to make an impact and be impressive, wouldn't it be in my vested interests to die early? Lest my ability to impress stagnates, and my impact becomes less notable?

Also, in truth, if I died right now, the potential I leave behind is left to one's imagination, which can far exceed any potential I can bring into fruition. i.e. Dead, I could've been a President. Alive? A blogging twat who worked at a hipster hotspot.

That's either way, really.

And it goes without saying everything I'd ever done will be hindsighted the fuck out of. I don't mean to pretentiously predict my friends will just feverishly read/hear everything I've ever done, but that it happens every time someone dies. Look at Amy Winehouse; I'm pretty sure someone would be flinging crackhead jokes right now if she weren't in an underground box.

It's okay Amy; I never liked you.

Too soon? Exactly.

Will I die in 5 years? I think so. Do I want to? Vaguely. Ultimately, I'm pretty scared of death. I think any sane Atheist should be.

omg i can't wait to see this forever!!!!111

Ideologically though, I'm prepared, most especially if it's because of my beliefs or principles. At the very least, my death could be absorbed into an idea. And ideas cannot be murdered. No this was not V for Vendetta-inspired.

Fuck off with the masks.

But that at least there will have been a purpose, and that my eternal nonexistence will be paralleled by a similarly eternal idealism. Perhaps one that's actualized in my wake.

I wouldn't prefer it, I suppose. I guess I just wouldn't be surprised. No matter how much logic I use to anchor the generic scarification of bullying, occasionally poor parenting, discrimination, and alienation, I'll always be inundated by it's ever looming presence.

I don't really expect you, the reader, to have any particular reaction. Please, don't let this sway your normal response. 'Cause like everything else, I just want you to know what I was thinking, and why I thought it. And I want unadulterated opinions, not coerced sympathies.

I will release 5 blogs post-mortem.