Every time I write something serious, I get embarrassed. I’m like, “”
Then I think, I’m really not very serious at all. Everybody who knows me knows this. See? I just made a rape joke! Zing!
Then I’m like, wait, no I am being serious, getting raped sucks. I don’t want it to happen to anyone, ever. Why doesn’t anybody take anything seriously anymore? Why isn’t anybody ever angry anymore? Why is everything a goddamn joke?
Then I go over the argument I’m always having with myself about how everybody knows that activists are boring, and that Air America failed because all of us just want to listen to nihilists. Nihlists don’t actually care what they’re saying because they don’t love the world. Rush Limbough, for example. He does not love the world. This makes for reckless and irreverent entertainment, which is entertaining. If I wanted to worship something, I’d go to church.
Do I love the world?
Why? Is it because I have to?
Do I think I’m better than someone who does not? (Yes.)
Isn’t thinking about any of this an insult to actual living?
Why can’t I be cute and quiet and enjoy things like gardening? Why can’t I just think, “Oh, that’s sad,” when I hear something sad? Why will I eviscerate a thing just to find relief in some small illusion (delusion) of control?
Do you see what I’m saying here? Here is a funny picture to lighten the mood, because as soon as I stop writing and you stop reading, this matter should no longer be on our minds.
