Monday 24 December 2007

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.


Anonymous said...

why does life have to have a point?
reasons (can) make people unhappy.

(jylobbe: the sound red wine makes dribbling from the mouth to the crotch.)

Anonymous said...

That was really good writing.

I'm going to listen to some Mountain Goats now :)


Anonymous said...

To be fair to the French, they never came to such conclusions. Neither should you. And by You, I mean Everyone.

Anonymous said...

I'm thinking that you should blog more

Anonymous said...

Ys, yes I do. Especially since,well. My lackof sex/love/anything, I suppose, makes me serve others more. Almost everything I do is because someone else wants it.

By fucking, do you mean the hard coitus, no strings attached kind of fucking or do you mean intimacy, love and sex?

After almost 7 years of no intimacy, I've begun to think I'll never get any. It has gotten to the point where I'd fuck a guy. A lesbian fuck a guy? :O But then I'm not a lesbian. I'm complicated. Then you become so hateful of all of the sexual beings around you that you begin to despise all that symbolises sex and sensuality, and even masturbation doesn't work for you anymore. It just ends up making you feel nauseous and dirtyand...borderline suicidal, Isuppose. But then, suicide is pointless.It'smore of something to think about when you're bored. It's a momentary thought when you're in the middle of a lecture and are feeling nothing. Suicide isn't, for me, something I want to do when I'm depressed. Just when I'm neutral,apathetic.

I used to fancy you. But then I realised that I was too inferior for you. You didn't like me anyway (and probably still don't,if you even remember who I am). I lacked the smarts and the depth of thought, and the confidence to even hold a conversation with you without making myslf look foolish.

Anyway. I went to look at MAC makeup in Myer earlier, and will bribe myself with it to try to bypass my apathy and lose weight for the thousandth time. Then I'll be beautiful, like Dita von Teese, and maybe someone will love me.But I don't know that I want it anymore.

I'm too tired to be able to get my thoughts in making sense order. Whatever. Sorry for boring you. I even bore myself.

Anonymous said...

Lol... I write angsty shit when I'm somewhat intoxicated. I only just realised that I wrote it. Hah. Fail.