Communication Breakdown
Hey guys. HELLo again. I just have a few things to say and then I’m gonna leave you to your lonesomeness. First let me admire your differentness, your sincere unadjustability, no matter how miniscule or colossal. I approve of it, to say the least. Hell, I encourage it. And it seems to me you do too. Why else would you be here, reading me again, the “deranged”? Yeah, according to Merriam-Webster, the only antonym of “adjusted” is “deranged”. Fuck that, though. “It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society,” Krishnamurti wrote once, and fingerbang me if I don’t agree.
In what seems like an eternal effort to embrace humanity, I once again put myself out there, and once again, I failed miserably. “Regular” people, what your media would call, well-adjusted, useful citizens of the world, don’t respond kindly to my kind. I always seem to rub them the wrong way. And there was I, under the impression I could rub off all shapes and styles of dicks effectively. Boy was I wrong. There are some dicks out there, man. And apparently, they don’t like the way I rub them. Hey fuckface, you gotta be careful, they say, or we’re gonna frown upon your ideas and scorn them with a hatefully pressurized “Pff!”
“Pff” to your fucking face you fucking moron. EXcuuuse me that I tried to communicate something else than what I should smell like, why I should really get rid of my stupid facial hair and why buying a name brand T-shirt will elevate me to new levels of societal understanding. Yeah, right. But me, being me, I didn’t rape his hypothalamus through the nostrils, and in the vein of trying to connect with people other than my usual certified weirdo friends I used what I had – my words. I claimed that I did make an obvious, to me at least, effort to blend with the environment (a trendy lounge/bar/crappy-music kind of place); I tended my facial hair, showered meticulously, wore drawer-clean clothes, and wasn’t sporting a fucking-look-at-me-I’m-insane-and-I-headbang-to-death-metal-every-second-of-my-life bandana. The dick pff-ed again, pointing at my mildly creased black pants and T-shirt.
He said: “They’re wrinkled”.
“So what’s wrong with that?” I replied.
“It’s not formal enough for a place like this. We’re not animals,” he snorted. “We’ve invented steam-irons and some of us have thumbs to do the job. Ha-ha”.
“Yeah because the jungle is chuck-full with steam-pressed tuxedo-wearing orangutans, you freaking idiot.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to tell you what’s wrong with you.”
“Oh! Go on,” I said sarcastically but I didn’t let him. I just went on, trying to explain the stupidity of ironing (leading to other stuff), steadily driving my mouth and eyes to a rage.
List of things that shouldn’t be important in our society but are, enlarging my tumor in the process:
IRONING: Seriously? Ironing? Who gives a vibrator’s leaky battery for ironing! “OMG, your shirt is not ironed, what a bum!” I don’t know when society decided that clothes should be steam pressed if they’re to be considered as accepted attire but it must have went something like this.
Old French guy: Hey, I have too much time and people working for me, I should invent some shit up to make their lives even worse and weirder.
Old French woman [sitting in front of a mirror]: Shh- I’m trying to figure out how to make my wrinkles disappear [spreading her skin with tensed fingers].
OFG: Yeah! As if that’s your only problem, Miss Wavy Ass.
OFW: You know how wrinkly clothing reflects our decaying skin? Maybe we should change that.And so it went, and hundreds of years later, people are losing humongous amounts of time; time they could use creatively, to do art or think sciency stuff to make me work even less, masturbate on banana trees or do absolutely nothing but loitering in their minds. But no, millions of people must spend billions of hours for decades of their measly little lives to look presentable on the outside. To have their clothes straitened. Shit man, imagine having all this human energy put to good use, like telling your children you love them, pushing them to discover their minds, instead of mentally raping them with notions of conformity. I remember my mother ironing on Sunday mornings, for hours on end, abnormally irritated, cussing at the sounds of our laughter, for she had to stand, back-aching, in front of a steamy apparatus that straightensclothes, in the middle of Mediterranean summer, while all she wanted was to watch cartoons with us. And she could do just that but society wouldn’t let her. And then I jumped on
MAKE-UP: though still wrinkle-related, and all the money and human resources spent on that shit as well. As if your lover will never see your unpainted face, which creates a bunch of unnecessary pressure for the first “unveiling” of your real self. So your skin is blemished and your mouth is not as vibrantly red. I’m having sex with you! Not your retarded, odd zit, or your gaping red mouth. Well ok, sometimes I do have sex with your gaping mouth, but its color is irrelevant. If I wanted to fuck an insanely red mouth I’d fuck Ronald McDoland and that will be that.
And then, the guy said something about the trends of FASHION and how it demands women to be beautiful in a certain way to which I had only this to say: Homosexual male fashion designers should stop creating the image of the beautiful woman. They make “beautiful” women they don’t even want to fuck. How the hell do you expect to know what’s beautiful on a woman if sex is never a factor? On the other hand, they want to fuck men, which is why most women find gay men attractive. Because gay fashion designers make them fuckable for themselves, so women naturally respond to their fuckability. So all these, anorexic, narrowed-pelvic, non-breasted, boy-looking, young women, are constructed as the “beautiful” because gay fashion designers prefer young boys— that’s what they find attractive and, naturally that’s what they make. Oh man, I was angry. Nobody was talking. I pretended I dragged on an imaginary cigarette to calm down, something I do a lot in my mind, even five years after quitting. I exhaled my imaginary smoke, looking downwards, when this otherwise attractive woman, pranced by on high heels that made her walk retarded.
HIGH HEELS: “See,” I said to my interlocutor, “does this seem normal to you? She can’t even walk properly. Why would you want to wear shoes that make walking hard? It’s shoes for fuck’s sake. Invented for making moving around easier.”
“Well,” he said.
“I’ll tell you why,” I interrupted. “It is the fourteenth century, we’re in France again, and two perverted Frenchmen – as if there’s any other kind, harr harr – are sitting in a pub of sorts. Hey buddy, says one of them. I have a real problem with women. They always get away when I try to rape them. Granted, I’m drunk but they’re always so quick on their feet. Leave it me, mon ami, says the other one. Your friend will fix this for you. And so they made high heels and women couldn’t run away anymore.”“What, seriously?” the guy I was talking to asked.
“No, you moron. Not really. But that’s exactly the point. Heels were created to ease horse-riding, so the boot wouldn’t slip inside the saddle’s stirrups. They were made for men initially. And now everything is blown out of proportion because heels have no actual use. So the world just said: ‘Hey let’s really be stupid with it’. Fashion makes everything more complicated. So I have to be angry and confused half my life discussing all these things I can never change.”
“Like our fascination with DIAMONDS and the truly insane worth we assign to them. It’s just pressurized carbon that shines! Ooooh shiiiinnyyyy! Fuck, even I am carbon under pressure, and given my oily complexion, I guess I shine too. But nobody’s dying in Sierra Leone to discover pieces of me and glue them on platinum rings. We’re not fucking Neanderthals anymore. Shinny stones, no matter how rare, shouldn’t worth anything. So it shines! WHO CARES!"
And this is what fucks me up kind reader – apparently EVERYBODY CARES. I can’t take this anymore, you know. I’m bitter and sad and ran over by a car full of "normality". Sometimes I wish I could just blow everything up and start over. This civilization has failed. On with the new one...
*Sigh*
And I know this is just me, being “deranged”, since the majority disagrees with me. But hey, I’m just planting seeds, like that good friend Bill Hicks used to say. And maybe someday more people will agree to this notion and maybe we can do something about it. And maybe we’ll throw their diamonds, and their make-up kits, and their ties and their steam-irons and every other artificial blinker in their frowning faces. And there I will be, standing in the middle, masturbating madly, because we all need the mad to be mad in our place. And I guess I will be mad even then. For all the others…
(Although the possibility of being madly in love with this weird goddess who doesn’t even know I have a penis, might have something to do with all this bitterness. It just might. Probably. My pee pee yearns for her. Most definitely. Oh hell!)
the end,
p.s. The items I raged about are to be taken mostly as metaphorical and symbolic in place of all the things that we acknowledge as deeply wrong; though their literal meaning is important to me too.
p.p.s. I really meant to be frugal with my words today. I failed. At least take solace in the fact that I love you more than you’ll ever know. But again, I could be talking with my pee pee:)