More faggy introspection

A Loosely Connected Rant on Nothing in Particular

The horribly clichéd phrase “Nice guys finish last” is a lasting adage for a reason. It's true. While it's great for making yourself feel better about your inadequacies, by taking false pleasures in the happiness of others, any substantial relationship is unsustainable by being a “nice guy.” Outside of biological imperative, the stereotypical nice guy is boring, insecure, and wallowing. It's an image no one wants to have.

But it's hard when your heart gets ripped out your scrotum and all you want to do is listen to the melancholy tunes of Opeth and The Cure, write shitty poetry using your own blood as ink, and coming up with extravagant suicide scenarios, like skydiving naked into one of those silos in a nuclear power plant, or charging into a terrorist stronghold wearing a kilt and brandishing a harpoon gun. Even sadder is seeing the other party genuinely happy, without you, your services, excellent, one-of-a-kind services in your self-pitying mind, are no longer needed. All of this would make anyone feel like French-kissing a cobra.

But it's all something we have to cope with, I suppose, which is why I'm telling you this story. Call it a cautionary tale. It's bad feeling bad, pain and depression that can only be allayed with the strongest of barbiturates. It's nice, hitting the reefer, taking speed, smoking like a chimney, and taking enough sleep aids to knock out an insomniac for several years at a time. These escapades are all set to the dulcet tunes of jazz music of course, the most decadent and libertine of all musical genres, the equivalent of Marquis De Sade on cocaine.

Hear me out though. While wild drug romps are great, it just delays the issue, which culminates, eventually, one way or another, in you moving right along, becoming a better and wiser person. You can bury the issue temporarily with drugs and alcohol, it'll give you fleeting pleasure and distractions from your problems, but like a good zombie, whatever problems you have will just keep coming back, returning from the grave to haunt your pathetic, hung-up mind. When there's no more pot to smoke, no more vodka to drink, or any parakeets to strangle, you will wallow in your misery. You will drown in sadness, and suck on the poisoned nipple of melancholy. But that's how you move on. You will formulate thoughts, think critically and perhaps bitterly. You may want to listen to crappy music just to give yourself a bit of familiar comfort, but this is what builds character. This snowfall of sorrow will help you move along. It may feel like someone is wailing on your nuts with a pneumatic drill, but this is the good kind of pain. The type of pain you feel after an excruciating workout. It might not be immediate at first, but with time you'll realize it.

Almost always, you'll find some coping mechanism. The cool people read critically acclaimed satirical novels in an attempt to make themselves seem smarter, write irreverent pieces on seemingly nothing in particular, and watching foreign films as though they know something about movies. You'll feel better though. I promise, and if you don't, you can call my number for a refund. The whole thing can effectively be summed up as “Better to have 'loved' and lost, than to never have 'loved'” at all. I put massive irony quotation marks around the word 'love' because it's been used more than cocaine in a Bangkok brothel. Consider it an experience. Consider it learning. Be smart and try to wring some enjoyment out of life. Try not to get hung up on stuff like this because it will slowly kill you.

Walk out of the tunnel bitter, angry, and ready to kill. But as you keep walking, you'll realize your idiocy, bless the sunshine, and move onto the next coke orgy. I mean PTA meeting.

PS. That blurred the line between flash fiction and more incoherent ramblings spewed forth from God-knows-what in my brain.