My Word, How Draconian!
I have a rant, and it is a slightly unusual one.
You know who I am growing sick of, tired of, bored of hearing their complaints and issues? Who makes me more frustrated than one can ever imagine, because I was once of this same breed of person? Who I have the hardest time actually delivering a rant against, because I know what dwells in the heart of these people?
Fuck undercutting yourself. Fuck this low self-esteem bullshit, this “I’m not good enough” spiel, this same old, tired rehashing of second-guessing and self-doubt. Fuck this inferiority complex epidemic.
I am coming to be a subscriber to the Denis Leary school of psychology: Shut the Fuck Up, Next. Sit the hell down, shut the fuck up, and get the God damn over it. You know what? There’s little more that can be done about this mentality, because it doesn’t break apart when you try and be rational about it, it doesn’t go away when you prove it wrong, it persists even in the face of undeniable logic and empirical proof, so what else is there to do but to punch it in the face and scream, “Shut the fuck up, God fucking damn it!”
Really, out of this growing feeling of frustration has been growing my own personal philosophy that I refer to as “Punch It In The Face.” Somebody’s an asshole? Punch him in the face. They don’t expect it, they never see it coming, they just can’t believe there are consequences for their actions. So, punch ‘em in the God damn face. The look of astonishment and shock that will wash over their face is unbelievably amusing.
And the same goes for when someone comes out with, “I’m just a bad person.” Punch him in the face. Say to them, “Shut the fuck up, everybody is just as God damn good as everybody else . . . Pussy.” And you know what? That self-awareness of flaws and shortcoming is all the more proof of being something better than a lot of the people out there with real flaws. If you can see where you are failing, where you are coming up with the short straw, than that is all the fucking more reason you’re not a failure.
Now, the other case is that one where someone has to assert their sucking at something which is absurd. “I’m too emotional, I’m too sensitive, I’ve got too many issues.” Jesus H. Christ, how can you have issues with having issues? There’s a fucking line that has to be drawn between actual issues and just making shit up, people.
Nobody has unique emotions. Why the hell do you think you’re not special, but, somehow, special enough to possess some extraordinary trait that nobody else has? Yeah, that’s right, your issue is not unique. For every psychological disorder you may think you suffer, there are two thousand people who probably have the same thought. Even for this “rare” shit they’re coming out with, today, that just means there’s a fuck-ton of others who simply haven’t been diagnosed.
You’re alone in the world, are you? Is that what you have to say, that you are so alone, that nobody else understands? Nobody can live your fucking life for you, no shit, but everybody else sure as shit is living their own life, and one human life is just the same as the next. No, I’m not saying everybody is the same, I’m saying that everybody is in the same bloody boat. We all have the same emotions as you do, perhaps not in the same combination or permutation, but they’re all there.
You don’t think you’re good enough to be with somebody? What the fuck does that have to say about what you think of other people’s judgement capabilities? Oh, they just don’t know what it is that goes on in your head? Well, no bloody fucking wonder, since you keep it in and never tell anyone. Why? They can’t comprehend what’s wrong with you, what happened to you, the experiences you’ve had, your past, your memory, your life? Gee, for someone who is so bloody shitty of a person, you sure are a God damn enigma and mystery of the universe, I guess. You certainly must fail miserably at being worthwhile if you’re the most incomprehensible puzzle in existence. Oooh no, I guess you’re so damn awful when the bounds of your failure extend beyond the very capacity of the human brain, despite you being in possession of the same mind with the same schematic we all get.
Jesus Christ, if you’re so convinced you’re going to be alone, and nobody is going to understand, and there is nothing that can be done to help you, then perhaps that will be the case, but there is something commonly referred to as a “self-fulfilling prophecy.”
The world is shit. Life is shit. People are shit. Everything is shit. Misery, dreariness, desperation, anguish, sorrow, woe, tragedy, atrocity, travesty, calamity, catastrophe: reality.
I’m no poet, but I write poetry. I’m no writer, but I write. I’m no artist, but I draw. I’m no genius, but I think.
You would think that in a world where we, as a race, define and refine everything that constitutes our world, it’d be something we would have control over, that within it we would exercise ultimate authority. I suppose, however, that when you yield that right to others, when you allow yourself to be walked upon and confined to their arbitrary borders, then that won’t happen.
But, it is all about power, isn’t it? But, power is an idea we, as humans, created and fuel . . . So, somebody must be giving it to these people in power, these people in control of our destinies and our dreams, our hopes and our desires. This source of power must be coming from somewhere within the populace, and I guess that everything is up to both the people in power and the people giving these people the power, and that’s all there is to it, in the end.
You have no role in your own life, do you?
Fuck that shit.
Beyond institutions, beyond organised religion, educational systems, governments and nations, beyond that is the real fucking world, people. Beyond cliques and etiquettes, beyond royalty and nobility, aristocracy and plutocracy, beyond the walls of economy and society, city and state, beyond everything is the world. Nothing else matters, nothing else is the end-all and be-all, nothing else is the alpha and omega, first and last, best and blest.
You can say it in poetry, in prose and plays, in art and in writing, in oration and speeches, in action and motion, but I’m saying it here, again, straightforward: your life is your God damn own.
“I’m not special.” Then, who is? “I’m not good enough.” Then, what is good? “I’m too emotional.” Then, what is proper emotion? You second-guess yourself, you doubt your own self, you undermine everything you really know, and with what are you left?
Everyone else must know what they’re doing, so you look to them. Someone else, anyone else, aside from me, must be the one with the Answer. And, all of a sudden, you find yourself in someone else’s world, and you’re surprised that you no longer matter, no longer are important, because you’ve resigned yourself to exist in a world of somebody else’s creation, and you can only complain. You put yourself there, shut the fuck up.
Hell, I’d offer to get you out. I’d offer you everything I have, my heart and soul, my time and my words, advice and consolation; I’d offer you the shirt off my back and flesh off my bone, but it won’t do any good. Nobody listens. Nobody hears.
Don’t be surprised when, instead, I punch you in the face. Of course, you will be.
Adios.
You know who I am growing sick of, tired of, bored of hearing their complaints and issues? Who makes me more frustrated than one can ever imagine, because I was once of this same breed of person? Who I have the hardest time actually delivering a rant against, because I know what dwells in the heart of these people?
Fuck undercutting yourself. Fuck this low self-esteem bullshit, this “I’m not good enough” spiel, this same old, tired rehashing of second-guessing and self-doubt. Fuck this inferiority complex epidemic.
I am coming to be a subscriber to the Denis Leary school of psychology: Shut the Fuck Up, Next. Sit the hell down, shut the fuck up, and get the God damn over it. You know what? There’s little more that can be done about this mentality, because it doesn’t break apart when you try and be rational about it, it doesn’t go away when you prove it wrong, it persists even in the face of undeniable logic and empirical proof, so what else is there to do but to punch it in the face and scream, “Shut the fuck up, God fucking damn it!”
Really, out of this growing feeling of frustration has been growing my own personal philosophy that I refer to as “Punch It In The Face.” Somebody’s an asshole? Punch him in the face. They don’t expect it, they never see it coming, they just can’t believe there are consequences for their actions. So, punch ‘em in the God damn face. The look of astonishment and shock that will wash over their face is unbelievably amusing.
And the same goes for when someone comes out with, “I’m just a bad person.” Punch him in the face. Say to them, “Shut the fuck up, everybody is just as God damn good as everybody else . . . Pussy.” And you know what? That self-awareness of flaws and shortcoming is all the more proof of being something better than a lot of the people out there with real flaws. If you can see where you are failing, where you are coming up with the short straw, than that is all the fucking more reason you’re not a failure.
Now, the other case is that one where someone has to assert their sucking at something which is absurd. “I’m too emotional, I’m too sensitive, I’ve got too many issues.” Jesus H. Christ, how can you have issues with having issues? There’s a fucking line that has to be drawn between actual issues and just making shit up, people.
Nobody has unique emotions. Why the hell do you think you’re not special, but, somehow, special enough to possess some extraordinary trait that nobody else has? Yeah, that’s right, your issue is not unique. For every psychological disorder you may think you suffer, there are two thousand people who probably have the same thought. Even for this “rare” shit they’re coming out with, today, that just means there’s a fuck-ton of others who simply haven’t been diagnosed.
You’re alone in the world, are you? Is that what you have to say, that you are so alone, that nobody else understands? Nobody can live your fucking life for you, no shit, but everybody else sure as shit is living their own life, and one human life is just the same as the next. No, I’m not saying everybody is the same, I’m saying that everybody is in the same bloody boat. We all have the same emotions as you do, perhaps not in the same combination or permutation, but they’re all there.
You don’t think you’re good enough to be with somebody? What the fuck does that have to say about what you think of other people’s judgement capabilities? Oh, they just don’t know what it is that goes on in your head? Well, no bloody fucking wonder, since you keep it in and never tell anyone. Why? They can’t comprehend what’s wrong with you, what happened to you, the experiences you’ve had, your past, your memory, your life? Gee, for someone who is so bloody shitty of a person, you sure are a God damn enigma and mystery of the universe, I guess. You certainly must fail miserably at being worthwhile if you’re the most incomprehensible puzzle in existence. Oooh no, I guess you’re so damn awful when the bounds of your failure extend beyond the very capacity of the human brain, despite you being in possession of the same mind with the same schematic we all get.
Jesus Christ, if you’re so convinced you’re going to be alone, and nobody is going to understand, and there is nothing that can be done to help you, then perhaps that will be the case, but there is something commonly referred to as a “self-fulfilling prophecy.”
The world is shit. Life is shit. People are shit. Everything is shit. Misery, dreariness, desperation, anguish, sorrow, woe, tragedy, atrocity, travesty, calamity, catastrophe: reality.
I’m no poet, but I write poetry. I’m no writer, but I write. I’m no artist, but I draw. I’m no genius, but I think.
You would think that in a world where we, as a race, define and refine everything that constitutes our world, it’d be something we would have control over, that within it we would exercise ultimate authority. I suppose, however, that when you yield that right to others, when you allow yourself to be walked upon and confined to their arbitrary borders, then that won’t happen.
But, it is all about power, isn’t it? But, power is an idea we, as humans, created and fuel . . . So, somebody must be giving it to these people in power, these people in control of our destinies and our dreams, our hopes and our desires. This source of power must be coming from somewhere within the populace, and I guess that everything is up to both the people in power and the people giving these people the power, and that’s all there is to it, in the end.
You have no role in your own life, do you?
Fuck that shit.
Beyond institutions, beyond organised religion, educational systems, governments and nations, beyond that is the real fucking world, people. Beyond cliques and etiquettes, beyond royalty and nobility, aristocracy and plutocracy, beyond the walls of economy and society, city and state, beyond everything is the world. Nothing else matters, nothing else is the end-all and be-all, nothing else is the alpha and omega, first and last, best and blest.
You can say it in poetry, in prose and plays, in art and in writing, in oration and speeches, in action and motion, but I’m saying it here, again, straightforward: your life is your God damn own.
“I’m not special.” Then, who is? “I’m not good enough.” Then, what is good? “I’m too emotional.” Then, what is proper emotion? You second-guess yourself, you doubt your own self, you undermine everything you really know, and with what are you left?
Everyone else must know what they’re doing, so you look to them. Someone else, anyone else, aside from me, must be the one with the Answer. And, all of a sudden, you find yourself in someone else’s world, and you’re surprised that you no longer matter, no longer are important, because you’ve resigned yourself to exist in a world of somebody else’s creation, and you can only complain. You put yourself there, shut the fuck up.
Hell, I’d offer to get you out. I’d offer you everything I have, my heart and soul, my time and my words, advice and consolation; I’d offer you the shirt off my back and flesh off my bone, but it won’t do any good. Nobody listens. Nobody hears.
Don’t be surprised when, instead, I punch you in the face. Of course, you will be.
Adios.
posted by c.Jay Wrong at
3:01 AM
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