DAV
I'm a little overcome by sadness these days.
I don't think our levels of joy vs. sadness over time always come out equal. I think that we are unhappy far more than we are happy. Is this because humans are fickle? Or is it simply because there's a wide range of emotions, happiness being only one of them, which proves a simply mathematical equation that shows our happiness to not be small but merely equivalent in our lives to the sadness, anger, fear etc that also crosses our behavioral minds.
I'm overanalyzing.
I am losing my girlfriend. I am poor and losing money. I do not know how to find better work, and there may not actually be better work out there. I an underwhelmed and very jealously upset by the lack of reward and excessive insult I have received from my family after years and years of dedication and hard work for its cause. I feel unmotivated. I have no goals and no direction. I can't even honestly say that I have any kind of dream.
My body is an atrocious broken mess of excessive liquids which clog up my head and cause exhaustion, confusion, impeded hearing and breathing, constant irritation that itches and causes coughing and sneezing (and also makes everybody think that I am sick all the time), chronic peeling and dryness as well as chronic oilyness and zits, dandruff, psoriasis, and any other god-awful skin/allergy disease that makes simple things in life, like breathing, communicating, and choosing a cleaning product without malicious side effects very difficult.
Because I have devoted so much of my life to the family business, I have been out of touch with any real goals, and my college learning suffered some. I have also lost time that I could have spent improving myself and focusing on new goals to get ahead in my desired field in the past 2 or 3 years. The family business has been and is nothing more than a source of constant stress, time consumption, and empty promises. I feel used, and I also feel awful for abandoning such a huge part of my life now, especially since I am simply allowing myself to leave a world of hurt for a world of confusion and indirection. I am upset that I am restarting from when I left college, my only excuse being that I was too loyal to my family to pursue my own empty life.
Finally, I am now a bedraggled college grad in an economic recession without the experience or the skills to impress anybody in my field, assuming there is such a thing as a "field" of English: Creative Writing. My professors lied to me. I am reeling from one bad relationship, one awful relationship with a nasty girl who still threatens to kill me for actions that she made up in her psychotic, derranged mind, and one relationship that became far more emotionally set than I ever expected and is soon coming to an abrupt and unwanted end. My dreams, which were never lofty, but still mildly artistic and free, have been relegated to the teaching of children, who are ungrateful and selfish and cruel and undeserving of the love and caring that I try to provide for them.
I feel like that love and caring is already nearly depleted - for my students, for my girlfriends, and even for my family.
They have nothing to offer. My job doesn't pay well in money and not at all in satisfaction (possibly the opposite). My girlfriends are needy, and they become mortal enemies when the relationships end, which is devastating to both my mental health and my safety. My family is needy and pays me only enough to keep me coming back, but never enough to loose me from the bindings of dependency; perhaps my father's desire to control me will cause him to lose me completely someday.
And at my current dumbass job at the college, which pays virtually nothing (and it isn't much work anyway, so I can't honestly whine much about it, which is something to whine about), which I have because there are no real teacher openings, I am surrounded by the stupidest, most callous and irritating imbeciles who were ever rejected and then grudgingly accepted from and into the academic world. Not to mention the fact that my boss treats me like I belong here, which maybe I do and maybe I don't. I feel like I'm above having neurotic maniacs intrude in every aspect of my life to domineer their disillusionment over my meaningless life, but then again, I've failed.
Therefore, I don't think my sadness is purely a matter of math.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
DAV
So... What's going on today...
Oh, Fun Fact:
8/10 I'd bet you're an Awful Jackass from Whore Island who deserves a mouthful of mucous and full day of servitude to ungrateful masters who only whip you in return for your gretest efforts to help them.
Of course, these consequences will never be met because your victims know of Pandora, and in the despairing pits of our disillusioned, misanthropic, dead-beating hearts, we have a glimmer of hope. That faint light keeps ius working hard. It keeps our road-rashed legs moving back and forth at top speed all night. It keeps our memories sharp and our voices friendly and upbeat throughout the otherwise overwhelming depression.
Our hope:
15% - 20%
Precious few humans of such noble lineage are left who would offer up appropriate payment to servants when not forced. It is a pitiful state of our culture and our people, that we are so cruel and greedy that we calculate tips to the barest 12-15 percentile mark, rounding down every time.
The joke is that there is never any mucous. At least I am honorable enough to do my absolute best to please my patrons, even if they are nasty, needy, selfishly time-consuming with their orders, young, foreign, or even black.
But all of you are such lazy, sick, audacious cretins that you take advantage of our sales and deals and discounts, spend high dollars at restaurants you cannot entirely afford, and then you make up the difference by fucking your servers. Well, FUCK YOU! FUCK your economy. FUCK your whining about powerful businessmen and hard workers who get bailouts because they're superior beings to your insignificant ass and who tip like they ought to. Go FUCK your bitchy, whiny, deserter ass back to whatever country or continent you came from.
This is AMERICA! Home of the brave. Our founders were inventors and idealists and businessmen and warriors who lived and died to create a capitalist democracy that propogates the ability of all people who have a will to work to become successful without kings and lords and conquerors and emperors, which may be far more necessary in the world of slackers and artless peons that you hail from).
Your life is so easy. All these businesses compete to make you happy. All these people work their asses off to help you out! You too work very hard to earn what you earn, and on the side you do your gigs to make extra money. We all have electricity and hot food and free time to exercise and play games and find women to fuck. Life is so easy here that so many of us need to do nothing more than lounge around a countertop and make idle conversation in order to keep a 2-4 person household fed.
And yet ungratefulness and greed reigns. Alas for the "economy?" HA! I mean, seriously, LOL or whatever. I'm not saying that the overlords of greed at the top of the food chain aren't at fault. I'm not saying that government laxness wasn't part of the problem. I'm just saying that NONE OF YOU ARE ANY DIFFERENT. NONE OF YOU ARE ANY HELP! The American society is full of freeloaders who insult the entire concept of their country by cheating the system and squandering money for their own trite and excessive pleasures, screwing over everybody around them and many people who are also far away. Our country is a junkyard, a monument of totalled, broken and detatched values that once were the driving force behind our great developments in the early-mid 20th century.
Look, I didn't believe it at first, because I work hard. I strive to become educated. I made good grades in high school, quickly getting a driver's license. I worked for my father and my family and at restaurants to make money on the side and pay my bills in High School. I have had 3 jobs since graduation, because college is expensive and so is life in general. I try help people when I can, not that it's my main priority. It's just shit that I do when there's a problem. I maintain moral and ethical values in accordance with my religion and my opinion of what needs to be done in order to be a "good" person, whatever. I have never known anything else. WHAT THE HELL ELSE IS THERE BUT THIS KIND OF BEHAVIOR?!
Until now.
For the first time, I am introduced to society. I teach your children. Seriously, I teach writing to 6-12 graders and 1st and 2nd year college students because none of them have managed to learn the information supplied in that 100 page book, Strunk and White, over the past 14 years they've spent in school (for 8 hours each day). I listen to their self-righteous and extremist views, how they ignore their underlying selfishness, incompetence and gross misappropriation of morality and ethics by icily accusing the president and their bosses of ruining the world and their lives.
I also listen to you yourselves. You sit around the table, talking about games and boats and music and all these little priveleges that you love. Only the rich ones have anything to say about work. Only the men in suits or the men in rugged clothes have anything to say about matters that concern others and not themselves. Only that tiny percent of people who work on weekends and at nights are ever daring enough to respect a working man by offering up a decent and not unreasonable sum of money for services provided because that tiny group of people that has not fallen (completely) under the darkness of modern social squalor is, in truth, all that you have left.
And as this economy terminates all your ill gotten riches, all the wonders of life that your ancestors happily handed down to you expecting something more of your lives than blatant slovenliness, I hope that you taste just a tiny bit of the bitterness of the choking soil that you rub your crummy shoes on as you walk from back alley to back alley, hunting for a hit and a whore.
Look at how much this country sucks because of you parasitic fleabags. Now, go make something of yourself. Or die. Or, at least, leave my country. Our pussy democratic government has lenient border laws, and I'm sure we'll let you jump back on in once we have stuff worth stealing again. After all, I'm not going to change my ways. I just want you out of my way while I fix this shit.
I SAID GET OUT OF HERE!!!!!
So... What's going on today...
Oh, Fun Fact:
8/10 I'd bet you're an Awful Jackass from Whore Island who deserves a mouthful of mucous and full day of servitude to ungrateful masters who only whip you in return for your gretest efforts to help them.
Of course, these consequences will never be met because your victims know of Pandora, and in the despairing pits of our disillusioned, misanthropic, dead-beating hearts, we have a glimmer of hope. That faint light keeps ius working hard. It keeps our road-rashed legs moving back and forth at top speed all night. It keeps our memories sharp and our voices friendly and upbeat throughout the otherwise overwhelming depression.
Our hope:
15% - 20%
Precious few humans of such noble lineage are left who would offer up appropriate payment to servants when not forced. It is a pitiful state of our culture and our people, that we are so cruel and greedy that we calculate tips to the barest 12-15 percentile mark, rounding down every time.
The joke is that there is never any mucous. At least I am honorable enough to do my absolute best to please my patrons, even if they are nasty, needy, selfishly time-consuming with their orders, young, foreign, or even black.
But all of you are such lazy, sick, audacious cretins that you take advantage of our sales and deals and discounts, spend high dollars at restaurants you cannot entirely afford, and then you make up the difference by fucking your servers. Well, FUCK YOU! FUCK your economy. FUCK your whining about powerful businessmen and hard workers who get bailouts because they're superior beings to your insignificant ass and who tip like they ought to. Go FUCK your bitchy, whiny, deserter ass back to whatever country or continent you came from.
This is AMERICA! Home of the brave. Our founders were inventors and idealists and businessmen and warriors who lived and died to create a capitalist democracy that propogates the ability of all people who have a will to work to become successful without kings and lords and conquerors and emperors, which may be far more necessary in the world of slackers and artless peons that you hail from).
Your life is so easy. All these businesses compete to make you happy. All these people work their asses off to help you out! You too work very hard to earn what you earn, and on the side you do your gigs to make extra money. We all have electricity and hot food and free time to exercise and play games and find women to fuck. Life is so easy here that so many of us need to do nothing more than lounge around a countertop and make idle conversation in order to keep a 2-4 person household fed.
And yet ungratefulness and greed reigns. Alas for the "economy?" HA! I mean, seriously, LOL or whatever. I'm not saying that the overlords of greed at the top of the food chain aren't at fault. I'm not saying that government laxness wasn't part of the problem. I'm just saying that NONE OF YOU ARE ANY DIFFERENT. NONE OF YOU ARE ANY HELP! The American society is full of freeloaders who insult the entire concept of their country by cheating the system and squandering money for their own trite and excessive pleasures, screwing over everybody around them and many people who are also far away. Our country is a junkyard, a monument of totalled, broken and detatched values that once were the driving force behind our great developments in the early-mid 20th century.
Look, I didn't believe it at first, because I work hard. I strive to become educated. I made good grades in high school, quickly getting a driver's license. I worked for my father and my family and at restaurants to make money on the side and pay my bills in High School. I have had 3 jobs since graduation, because college is expensive and so is life in general. I try help people when I can, not that it's my main priority. It's just shit that I do when there's a problem. I maintain moral and ethical values in accordance with my religion and my opinion of what needs to be done in order to be a "good" person, whatever. I have never known anything else. WHAT THE HELL ELSE IS THERE BUT THIS KIND OF BEHAVIOR?!
Until now.
For the first time, I am introduced to society. I teach your children. Seriously, I teach writing to 6-12 graders and 1st and 2nd year college students because none of them have managed to learn the information supplied in that 100 page book, Strunk and White, over the past 14 years they've spent in school (for 8 hours each day). I listen to their self-righteous and extremist views, how they ignore their underlying selfishness, incompetence and gross misappropriation of morality and ethics by icily accusing the president and their bosses of ruining the world and their lives.
I also listen to you yourselves. You sit around the table, talking about games and boats and music and all these little priveleges that you love. Only the rich ones have anything to say about work. Only the men in suits or the men in rugged clothes have anything to say about matters that concern others and not themselves. Only that tiny percent of people who work on weekends and at nights are ever daring enough to respect a working man by offering up a decent and not unreasonable sum of money for services provided because that tiny group of people that has not fallen (completely) under the darkness of modern social squalor is, in truth, all that you have left.
And as this economy terminates all your ill gotten riches, all the wonders of life that your ancestors happily handed down to you expecting something more of your lives than blatant slovenliness, I hope that you taste just a tiny bit of the bitterness of the choking soil that you rub your crummy shoes on as you walk from back alley to back alley, hunting for a hit and a whore.
Look at how much this country sucks because of you parasitic fleabags. Now, go make something of yourself. Or die. Or, at least, leave my country. Our pussy democratic government has lenient border laws, and I'm sure we'll let you jump back on in once we have stuff worth stealing again. After all, I'm not going to change my ways. I just want you out of my way while I fix this shit.
I SAID GET OUT OF HERE!!!!!
Thursday, March 26, 2009
The Umbrella Incident
DAV
Kalamari is not the correct name for a girl I once knew who had no interest in me at all. I enjoyed calling her Kalamari, but she wasn't interested in such nonsense, and I don't blame her, since I never really knew her in the first place. She was nothing but a name to me. A passing acquaintance. A whisper in the wind. Or a cold stare on a warm summer day.
This is not about her.
No, this is a story of misplaced flirtation, misinterpreted sentiments, desperate women, and savage rejection of powerful dumb lusts. It begins like some stories do:
With a Smile.
She walked in, the poor innocent dear. Thick Caribbean accent. Substantially overweight. Bright, silky garments that flow in the wind and attract curiosity from non-foreign, nonfat onlookers.I smiled at her, and I requested her card. All who enter the WC Loungemust be in possession of The Card. Specifically, the MDC Identfication Card (MIC).
She didn't have it.
She begged me to let her in, but I would not have outsiders in my private hall. She begged me to accept her number, but I am an experienced doorguard and know well the tricks and schemes of those who can memorize numbers but cannot transmogrify into the proper owners of such numbers. She begged me to allow her access to a computer, briefly, just long enough for one print-out, the schedule with her information on it that proves her eligibility to access the fruits of my facility, computers and printing being two of those privileges. I allowed it. She was grateful, and when she procured the proper information, I let her in.
She was very friendly, I may mention, which is good for her because I respond well to women of some charisma. After some time, she requested my particular assistance with a writing assignment. Writing and English are not her strong areas, but I am the Lord of the English Language.
As we discussed her ridiculous problems, I delved into her personal life. I do not particularly care about her personal life, but I have often found that abstract writing themes are easier for students to understand when they can be molded to conform directly to abstractly thematic, yet concrete, situations that the writer has personally experienced. She continued to dwell upon her lovelife and her lovers and the men who constantly hound her and how she coyly resists their stalwart advances.
I was quickly bored by her drawling, yet I couldn't help but be astounded by her stories of love, lust and life, considering she was so ugly, especially for a young girl (which she revealed herself to be. I swear I thought she was in her mid-to-late 30s). In order to avoid being the total ass that I truly am, I didn't speak out my true thoughts. I made some very light, half-hearted attempts to comfort her and tried to focus on the work at hand. Her writing was insufficient, so I really did have a lot to cover.
I worked overtime with her because I had the time, she needed the help, and because we kept on getting sidetracked. She enjoyed chatting, and I'm good at conversation. I'm good at making it seem like I care about her because, let's face it, I do. Ugh. I told her I would love to have her come by again because her work needs more work. As I said it, I could see it in her eyes. That hopeful little glitter. She was smitten. Like a kitten. With an arrow stuck between its two diamond eyes.
From then on, she came everyday. She would carry her card, secretly, and I would not be able to acquire it, swipe it, get her in the WC and get on my merry way without being incessantly hassled, poked, squabbled with etc. And she did take to poking me. I, being an introverted and so guarded that some have accused me of being a bit psychotic, was often brought to nervous giggling and laughter through clenched, irritated teeth. She thought we were the best of friends and the fondest of flirts. Every time I saw her, I wanted to hide. Unfortunately, her personality was overpowering, not to mention my understanding of my job, and I spoke with her, tutored her constantly, worked with her, helped her, and watched the little tick swell up into a big, bloodsucking monster who thrived on and delighted in my presence.
Then, one day, I disappeared. I had other work. I would be back, but she didn't know because I had no time and no desire for goodbyes. Months later, when I returned, she had long gone.
But now she's back.
I hope she doesn't harrass me with her stupid umbrella, but she's already reached over the counter to try and touch me in her mock exhasperation and giddy idiocy.
I gotta get out of here.
Kalamari is not the correct name for a girl I once knew who had no interest in me at all. I enjoyed calling her Kalamari, but she wasn't interested in such nonsense, and I don't blame her, since I never really knew her in the first place. She was nothing but a name to me. A passing acquaintance. A whisper in the wind. Or a cold stare on a warm summer day.
This is not about her.
No, this is a story of misplaced flirtation, misinterpreted sentiments, desperate women, and savage rejection of powerful dumb lusts. It begins like some stories do:
With a Smile.
She walked in, the poor innocent dear. Thick Caribbean accent. Substantially overweight. Bright, silky garments that flow in the wind and attract curiosity from non-foreign, nonfat onlookers.I smiled at her, and I requested her card. All who enter the WC Loungemust be in possession of The Card. Specifically, the MDC Identfication Card (MIC).
She didn't have it.
She begged me to let her in, but I would not have outsiders in my private hall. She begged me to accept her number, but I am an experienced doorguard and know well the tricks and schemes of those who can memorize numbers but cannot transmogrify into the proper owners of such numbers. She begged me to allow her access to a computer, briefly, just long enough for one print-out, the schedule with her information on it that proves her eligibility to access the fruits of my facility, computers and printing being two of those privileges. I allowed it. She was grateful, and when she procured the proper information, I let her in.
She was very friendly, I may mention, which is good for her because I respond well to women of some charisma. After some time, she requested my particular assistance with a writing assignment. Writing and English are not her strong areas, but I am the Lord of the English Language.
As we discussed her ridiculous problems, I delved into her personal life. I do not particularly care about her personal life, but I have often found that abstract writing themes are easier for students to understand when they can be molded to conform directly to abstractly thematic, yet concrete, situations that the writer has personally experienced. She continued to dwell upon her lovelife and her lovers and the men who constantly hound her and how she coyly resists their stalwart advances.
I was quickly bored by her drawling, yet I couldn't help but be astounded by her stories of love, lust and life, considering she was so ugly, especially for a young girl (which she revealed herself to be. I swear I thought she was in her mid-to-late 30s). In order to avoid being the total ass that I truly am, I didn't speak out my true thoughts. I made some very light, half-hearted attempts to comfort her and tried to focus on the work at hand. Her writing was insufficient, so I really did have a lot to cover.
I worked overtime with her because I had the time, she needed the help, and because we kept on getting sidetracked. She enjoyed chatting, and I'm good at conversation. I'm good at making it seem like I care about her because, let's face it, I do. Ugh. I told her I would love to have her come by again because her work needs more work. As I said it, I could see it in her eyes. That hopeful little glitter. She was smitten. Like a kitten. With an arrow stuck between its two diamond eyes.
From then on, she came everyday. She would carry her card, secretly, and I would not be able to acquire it, swipe it, get her in the WC and get on my merry way without being incessantly hassled, poked, squabbled with etc. And she did take to poking me. I, being an introverted and so guarded that some have accused me of being a bit psychotic, was often brought to nervous giggling and laughter through clenched, irritated teeth. She thought we were the best of friends and the fondest of flirts. Every time I saw her, I wanted to hide. Unfortunately, her personality was overpowering, not to mention my understanding of my job, and I spoke with her, tutored her constantly, worked with her, helped her, and watched the little tick swell up into a big, bloodsucking monster who thrived on and delighted in my presence.
Then, one day, I disappeared. I had other work. I would be back, but she didn't know because I had no time and no desire for goodbyes. Months later, when I returned, she had long gone.
But now she's back.
I hope she doesn't harrass me with her stupid umbrella, but she's already reached over the counter to try and touch me in her mock exhasperation and giddy idiocy.
I gotta get out of here.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Marsupials Are Cute and Cuddly, but not Opossums
DAV
I would like to write something cute and happy, but I can't. My writing comes all dark and brooding and emo and cheesy. Like that Cheetos Cheetah, sulking, skulking in a circle, in a black trenchcoat over droopy fur with tears sinking beneath those dark sunglasses.
That's what happens to me when I try to write sometimes.
Even the Cheetos commercials are describing their silly signature speedy as a more sadisdic and criminal character, bending the lines between crude and cruel. Maybe it's a sign of the times. Dark economic times. Tough, confusing times in my life, being that I'm 26, looking for a carreer. Looking for love. Looking around, but my eyesight gets worse every year.
I'll tell you what, I've never reached a time in my life that I wouldn't call tough or confusing. When I was a baby, my parents were always telling me not to do stuff. I didn't understand. Right and wrong were twisted, bizaar concepts based on some sort of jibberish about me not being the center of the universe. Whatever. Fun was always risky. Nothing made sense.
Then there was school. Socializing. Working with other people who, ironically, were just as irrational and uncomprehending as I was. It seems like a retarded system, suddenly. I reckon we'd all learn more if we went to school with adults rather than mean, stupid children, yea?
Then there's college. Suddenly, the stresses of high school are faded only enough ton introduce new fears and trials that involve the difficult metamorphosis from child to man, fairly late in life by hitorical standards.
And with every new stage of my life, I think things will finally become clearer and easier, but I am always wrong.
And I usually hold that I am always right.
So this is a confession you must both cherish and ignore.
In any event, where am I? I know I'm wallowing in misery, but where in the misery am I?
I can't tell. I think I'm about through it for right now. I feel kinda alright. Thanks for listening. I'm going to think about happy thoughts, like pretending I'm a pig and wallowing in mud and eating lots of soft, watery, overripe foods with fanatical gluttony before an orgasmic barbed wire back scratch.
Oh Yeah....................
I would like to write something cute and happy, but I can't. My writing comes all dark and brooding and emo and cheesy. Like that Cheetos Cheetah, sulking, skulking in a circle, in a black trenchcoat over droopy fur with tears sinking beneath those dark sunglasses.
That's what happens to me when I try to write sometimes.
Even the Cheetos commercials are describing their silly signature speedy as a more sadisdic and criminal character, bending the lines between crude and cruel. Maybe it's a sign of the times. Dark economic times. Tough, confusing times in my life, being that I'm 26, looking for a carreer. Looking for love. Looking around, but my eyesight gets worse every year.
I'll tell you what, I've never reached a time in my life that I wouldn't call tough or confusing. When I was a baby, my parents were always telling me not to do stuff. I didn't understand. Right and wrong were twisted, bizaar concepts based on some sort of jibberish about me not being the center of the universe. Whatever. Fun was always risky. Nothing made sense.
Then there was school. Socializing. Working with other people who, ironically, were just as irrational and uncomprehending as I was. It seems like a retarded system, suddenly. I reckon we'd all learn more if we went to school with adults rather than mean, stupid children, yea?
Then there's college. Suddenly, the stresses of high school are faded only enough ton introduce new fears and trials that involve the difficult metamorphosis from child to man, fairly late in life by hitorical standards.
And with every new stage of my life, I think things will finally become clearer and easier, but I am always wrong.
And I usually hold that I am always right.
So this is a confession you must both cherish and ignore.
In any event, where am I? I know I'm wallowing in misery, but where in the misery am I?
I can't tell. I think I'm about through it for right now. I feel kinda alright. Thanks for listening. I'm going to think about happy thoughts, like pretending I'm a pig and wallowing in mud and eating lots of soft, watery, overripe foods with fanatical gluttony before an orgasmic barbed wire back scratch.
Oh Yeah....................
Unfortunate Side Effects
DAV
Fear is a vibration.
It passes through like flickering static on a television screen.
Icy hot sweat drips down your brainstem,
Spine-tingling.
Eyes: Wide.
Mouth: Agape.
Fingers: Speedily tapping about.
The time for knocking on wood is passed.
You heart smashes into your chest like a determined schizoid.
Hate.
Hopeless.
Hideous.
Irrational murmurs.
Arduous rustling.
Cold Sleep.
Chattering Teeth.
Filthy wet hair.
Wake Up
Fear is a vibration.
It passes through like flickering static on a television screen.
Icy hot sweat drips down your brainstem,
Spine-tingling.
Eyes: Wide.
Mouth: Agape.
Fingers: Speedily tapping about.
The time for knocking on wood is passed.
You heart smashes into your chest like a determined schizoid.
Hate.
Hopeless.
Hideous.
Irrational murmurs.
Arduous rustling.
Cold Sleep.
Chattering Teeth.
Filthy wet hair.
Wake Up
Monday, March 23, 2009
An Explanation for all the Hate
DAV
Identity Crisis
We've all gone through an identity crisis. Usually, it occurrs sometime during our middle school years when we begin to recognize our individuality as humans with specific interests that stray from desire to only obey the commands and submit to the wills of our parents and teachers.
This wouldn't be a cirsis except for the fact that we don't know who or what we are because our knowledge of the world is so limited that we haven't been able to come to close to identifying ourselves as we relate to the world. Thus, our rebellion usually doesn't take any solid purposeful shape until many years later, and we are left as unfocused, unconforming, unhappy young adults with no direction, no appreciation, and no sense of self.
Of course, those worldly symbols of self identification are just that: worldly, and thair lack of connectedness with our minds and hearts can leave us disconnected later in life as well. How many people have thought themselves rocket scientists because of their love of the stars and sci-fi and appreciation for the periodic table only to find that their trite fantastical imaginations could never take them through university and laboratories and grueling work with sociopathic experimenters into the realms of brilliance and overwhelming work in the mysterious areas where math and matter blend.
The truth is that we identify ourselves with temporal aspects of this world that are prone to wear out and disappear, leaving us worried that all our hard work in the area of "self-identification" has gone completely to waste. The truth is that there is no solvent to our self identification through hobbies, career, talent, education or any other such trite garbage that contributes to our ability to cohabitate with OTHER human beings. Making other people happy has little or nothing to do with making yourself happy. If that were the case, then everybody would have a much harder time screwing people over and otherwise acting like jacknapes, which is the common ethic I see around here.
Do you want to know what you are?
YOU ARE SELFISH!
SEL-FISH!
FISH! FISH! FISH!
SELF-Ish!
Call me Selfishmael!
Selfy!
Selfous!
NOT Otherly or Human-interestish.
What humans need to realize is that they are not the center of the milky way galaxy, but they absolutely are 100% the center of their own lives.
Anyway, there's a lot of implications of this, but I'm tired of typing, a little, and I'm quite irritated by all the interruptions I've had in getting all this garbage on paper, so I'll have a part two to this later.
Identity Crisis
We've all gone through an identity crisis. Usually, it occurrs sometime during our middle school years when we begin to recognize our individuality as humans with specific interests that stray from desire to only obey the commands and submit to the wills of our parents and teachers.
This wouldn't be a cirsis except for the fact that we don't know who or what we are because our knowledge of the world is so limited that we haven't been able to come to close to identifying ourselves as we relate to the world. Thus, our rebellion usually doesn't take any solid purposeful shape until many years later, and we are left as unfocused, unconforming, unhappy young adults with no direction, no appreciation, and no sense of self.
Of course, those worldly symbols of self identification are just that: worldly, and thair lack of connectedness with our minds and hearts can leave us disconnected later in life as well. How many people have thought themselves rocket scientists because of their love of the stars and sci-fi and appreciation for the periodic table only to find that their trite fantastical imaginations could never take them through university and laboratories and grueling work with sociopathic experimenters into the realms of brilliance and overwhelming work in the mysterious areas where math and matter blend.
The truth is that we identify ourselves with temporal aspects of this world that are prone to wear out and disappear, leaving us worried that all our hard work in the area of "self-identification" has gone completely to waste. The truth is that there is no solvent to our self identification through hobbies, career, talent, education or any other such trite garbage that contributes to our ability to cohabitate with OTHER human beings. Making other people happy has little or nothing to do with making yourself happy. If that were the case, then everybody would have a much harder time screwing people over and otherwise acting like jacknapes, which is the common ethic I see around here.
Do you want to know what you are?
YOU ARE SELFISH!
SEL-FISH!
FISH! FISH! FISH!
SELF-Ish!
Call me Selfishmael!
Selfy!
Selfous!
NOT Otherly or Human-interestish.
What humans need to realize is that they are not the center of the milky way galaxy, but they absolutely are 100% the center of their own lives.
Anyway, there's a lot of implications of this, but I'm tired of typing, a little, and I'm quite irritated by all the interruptions I've had in getting all this garbage on paper, so I'll have a part two to this later.
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