existentialism on christmas night
Do you ever get so horrified by your meaningless and repetitive existence as to question whether survival really has any meaning? If you do, you will almost invariably come to the conclusion either that your life exists solely to serve others (be they real people or imaginary sky people) or that your life is driven by the biological need to fuck. Of course at this point your mind diverts into two streams of consciousness, one considering the literary/musical allusions and poor jokes available from such a diatribe, the other considering this more likely biological reason for existence. The trouble is that any consideration of fucking invariably leads you to a consideration of whether anyone would ever fuck you and why they might. All of a sudden about 90% of your life is pointless. Even trying hard you couldn't muster the attractiveness of sci-fi/fantasy actors, so why bother when it comes to them so easily. It's not just actors, of course. You have school-mates, work-mates and casual acquaintances who are all much better at being eye-candy. So you have to find some other way to be fuckable. Don't you see? You're at an evolutionary disadvantage here! And again it's easiest to die out. Suicide doesn't seem like a good idea, of course. It's really not. You need to consider high-order functions of human existence. Every person has an important place. So rather than entering the market for a relationship, don't bother. Consider yourself a tool of society, a maintainer of the social contract. Someone useful in ensuring that others can fulfil their biological needs. You are ancillary staff to the world. You hate the word fuck too, of course, because you need to believe in the value of this higher order. That perhaps the non-biological parts of human existence will lead to fucking that you can call love. But here fucking is appropriate - the connotation is clear. A purely physical act culminating and ending with orgasm. Pity or payment seem to be your best bets for sex. All this bullshit about love and perfection is just that. You start to believe in the words of those horrible Frenchmen who write books with names like The Fall. As the horror of the meaningless of your life sinks in you consider the idea of happiness. It's really not worth it to try and find happiness when at such a disadvantage. It's far too much work. So you resign yourself to a life of shallow, dull servitude. Occasionally you will break and rant and scream your unhappiness to the ether but then you sigh and relax and go back to ensuring those who never had to work for their mighty positions will never have to.
And by you, I mean me.
