Truth be told, I don't know how this computer works, or how yeast leavens bread, or how the hell time zones work, but I can understand some things. I may think that, like Diane Keaton, the radio works because tiny people live inside it, and I may have believed in Santa Claus a little to late into my adolescence, but that doesn't mean I can't have a very firm grip on how ye' old planet Earth functions. At least in it's regard for me.
The world, or Universe (I don't know? I've never left the comfort of this atmosphere.) Seems to work like this: I want something. I don't get that something.
It's a simple rule, but then again I think I remember a period of 11th Grade Physics about how the universe exists on a set of simple principles. (It should be noted that was about the last thing I understood in that class. Everything from then on out confused the ever-loving fuck out of me. Also, it may not even have been a physics class. It could've been an episode of Dawson's Creek. Whichever.) Therefore why shouldn't my principle be so simple? It has immeasurable destructive capabilities to my social, love, emotional, and professional lives, so it need not possess any other qualifiers.
What is interesting about this life-fuckery principle is that is does contain a cache of sorts. If I do not want something, I will shall receive that something. For instance if I do not want a specific job, I will receive that job. It's the "don't ask and you shall receive" type deal.
What is baffling is that there is no loopholes. No exceptions. The rule cannot be tricked. You can't flummox it. I cannot not want the things I do want and get them. And inversely want the things I do not want to in order not to get it. Get it?
Basically, I' m hooped.
Picture this: You are having an exceptional week. You have a job interview for somewhere you really want to work, doing work you feel you are uniquely adept at. Also, you have been made the acquaintance of something you are interested in pursuing romantically. All in all it sounds like a good week. But in my case I have already sealed the coffin of each possibility by simply wanting them too badly. Which creates an daring peak-to-pit emotional roller coaster ride: Anticipation. Hopefulness. Excitement. Followed by extreme disappointment and exasperation. There is no getting ahead. No plan making in the world can out manoeuvre it. After any amount of pleading will it relent. No amount of secret keeping or sneaking will deceive it. It is inescapable.
But I've given up. And Ta-da! I win. Simple isn't it? I don't care. I've given up the goat. I'm just going to muddle along, with no particular hopes, or dreams, or ambitions. Just nothingness. because what is the pint of wanting- Nay- needing particular things if you are never going to get them. When I can free up my time doing other things. For instance:
Something with Fabric? Millions of people occupy their time by doing this with fabric or fibres. Knitting, sewing, crocheting, quilting. So why can't I. With all the free time I will enjoy by not following my dreams, and making my way towards a better life I could be spending it making cute things for my appliances to keep warm. Now, I am not saying that those who devote themselves to the textile arts are just keeping their hands busy till they die? No. But I am also not say they aren't doing just that. I've seen far to many dolls with big skirts that sit over a spare roll of toilet paper to make that sweeping of a statement.
"Get busy livin', or get busy dyin'." Since my hands with be not occupied with the signing of autographs, large checks, or counting of money, I'll have to occupy my phalanges with some sort of activity so smoking it is! You can look awfully profound with a cigarette between your fingers, and just because I'll be dead inside doesn't mean I have to look like a waste of space. To all those who see me I might be some sort of tortured intellectual, instead of some guy repeatedly trying to divide 156 by 6 in his head. With the smoke slowly curling from the amber end of my cancer-stick I am sure to adopt an air of mystery about me. This will help save a little face when I'm 45 years old and still working at customer service at the mall. And, hey! It won't be a profound life, so it might as well be short.
Really get into birds, and bird ownership: Pretty self explanatory. Buy some birds. Call them my babies. Die alone.
Dioramas to Die for: Just because I haven't been able to manifest the life I want for myself in the the real world, doesn't mean that I can't create it in miniature. Some people, I am sure, live out very full, very exciting lives through the art o' the rama. I will join them. I can collect shoes boxes from the cardboard compactor at work and take them home, and simply by learning their secrets I can turn them into what they are meant to be. Little offices, little book stores, little wedding venues. All starring a miniature me with a more spherical, Styrofoam head.
That'll show 'em!