Being weird is fun most of the time. Worthy of no regrets, most of the time. But, you know, there are times when you wish you could go out and hang with these hypothetical normal types, and not discuss dick-arms and leg-handshakes, and whose movie is most artistic, and about sex, sex, sex, all the time. It’s exhausting.
But why is it exhausting? Shouldn’t that just be what life is? If the constant moments of life are exhausting, shouldn’t we be adjusted to that? Shouldn’t there be some kind of evolutionary feature that helps us to cope with long lines and paperwork and End User Agreements? Shouldn’t evolution have fixed that by now? We should love that shit, we should be enamored with paperwork. Up to our teeth in it. It should be the essence of what makes us human.
But, instead. Dread. Constant, unending DREAD. This constant slog, to where, and with whom, and, but, why? And what will we eat when we get there?
You get this fear sometimes as a creative person that you’re just doing what everyone else is doing. And this is the worst thing ever. But where does this come from? What’s so wrong with being not you?
Because individuality. Because tenets of Western Civilization.
Look at ants. They don’t look like they’re having too much fun, being drawn by pheromones and telekinetic communication or however the hive-mind works. See, maybe that’s something I should know. Maybe I should spend my life in the pursuit of what ants think, maybe this would increase my appreciation of things.
But then, Netflix. But then, beer. But then, I’m not that interested in ants.
Why think, why worry, why consider? Because the alternative is worse. But why be so weird about it? Why not turn the confusion into productivity? If there’s one thing people are good at, it’s turning aimlessness into feats of great productivity.
I could be a pyramid builder. I could be a space explorer. I could invent something to change the world. I could be great, I could be some genius, in a white coat. I could be large, and therefore, important.
But what for to write garbledegook and send it (nicely packaged) into the void, the web, the cloud, the mind-meld, the big empty, a shooting star of shiiiiiiiiit spritzing into the collective unconscious dream world of some utilitarian worker-bee world. Who cares?
Well, they tell me this is how you get a book deal, for starters. But that’s a bad way of looking at it. I guess being weird is just who this is, and writing down the weirdness is sometimes part of that. I live to embarrass my future self, who will one day come back here (because even now I know he’ll have nothing better to do), and read this, and wince, which is good, because I’m not him yet, so he’ll be the one who has to deal with the wincing.