Cynicism Questioned, Life Purpose Undermined

Diamonds are to be found only in the darkness of the earth, and truth in the darkness of the mind. Having penetrated to those depths, having groped in my heart of darkness, I have found and grasped a diamond of truth that now lays gleaming in my hand. That diamond, that truth, is that my life has been and always will be full of pain, disappointment, and nagging self-loathing.

Though covered with a leafy html foliage of tongue-in-cheek sarcasm and acidic wit, my life is nothing but recidivism personified, impulsiveness defined, and boredom made flesh. My life is a, je ne sais quoi, hemorrhoidal eruption of agony sprung from the wretched travail of introverted self-destruction.

In a spirit of glasnost, let me expound. Imagine me as a character in a book, the book of life. Well not The Book of Life. The book of my life. (Never mind that it is a movie. You'll see. This is a party. We are all here. Having fun. Watching my life.)

Scene:

(A dramatic--and clichéd--shot of the earth. Globe spins, zoom in on the Pacific, zoom into the Hawaiian Islands, zoom into the gritty industrial park where I work, zoom into the deep interior of a bunker-like building, into a room with no windows, that stinks of Legionnaires disease and carpet glue.)

I am busy researching the cost difference between printing a plastic card (like your credit card) and a laminated paper card (like your grocery store frequent shopper card). This information is surprisingly difficult to stumble upon. Hold the scene for 12 hours.

Home from work, I walk into a hot muggy and very deserted apartment. All my friends are there: my Pineapple Room steak and my Tivo.

I lay down, chew on my steak (the fourth this week--should I become a vegetarian?), and fast-forward through repetitive episodes of whatever escapist, hackneyed show I have. Ha ha. It IS funny that the title of your interviewee is "Chief Child-Molestation Expert." Clever. Yawn. Fresh. Whatever. Steak. Water. Teeth. Bed.

I carefully arrange the bedding--one pillow to lay my left cheek on, one pillow to hold in a headlock with my right arm, and my feet sticking off the end of the mattress and uncovered (to promote cooling). Quick, hurry, fall asleep before they come. Past loves. (Clip of her) Wasted opportunities. (Clip of Good Will Hunting) Dead-end paths. (Clip of Bourne Identity. So I have a Matt Damon thing.) Too late. Headlock tightens in a flood of obscuring, blinding murderous rage and sorrow.

So with blood beating violently at my temples, I grab the laptop and blog. I steal material from books, blogs, and movies without citing them. I hack together things that are occasionally funny, but are usually not. Sometimes its self-canonization, other times self-aggrandizement, and occasionally self-flagellation. Sometimes true and sometimes false. Usually stretched. Inherently fatalistic. Brimming with pathos when written. Mostly confusing and exhibitionistic when read.

Sometimes I even metablog--that is, blog about blogging. So while I am self-conscious about being self-referential, I am knowingly so. That I am cognizant about being knowingly self-referentially self-conscious (you can see where I am going with this, if you have lasted this far), only further adds a layer of complexity to this completely imagined amorphorous blogosphere which serves a useful proxy for close friends, social interaction, and meaningful life.

End Scene

from » negativity dept