With a title that pretentious, how could anyone resist? Yes, I will admit that I have a spotty…well, there is one spot…record so far this year with this blog, and that my last post was done out of frustration, but in the grand scheme of things that means very little. Sometimes, it’s beneficial when people aren’t paying any attention to what you’re doing. Other times, it’s one of those deals where you tend to ask yourself, “Why doesn’t anyone like me?” Of course, I stopped asking myself that question in the 7th grade, as it was too easy to answer, so this whole paragraph is pointless. Ya gotta love that sort of thing.
I’m going to do something that I almost never do, and that’s actually write something that directly applies to the title of this post. That’s simply fantastic. Suddenly, I feel like I’m making great therapeutic strides, where no strides had been before, and there is a slim chance that I will again be considered “normal” by mainstream society. Ha! I knew I couldn’t type that without pretending like I’m laughing hysterically inside my own head, even though I’m really just distracted by the argument two of my cats are having, and I was wondering whether licking my monitor would remove that weird stain from the upper right corner. I have important things on my mind, so maybe you can cut me some slack.
Getting back to the subject at hand, I really do know something you don’t. That doesn’t make me better than you, unless you’re a douchebag, in which case I might have a slight advantage as long as we’re graded on a curve. That’s irrelevant, though, and your propensity to piss all over people because they don’t conform to your agenda is a personal proclivity that should probably be examined by a mental health professional. Since you’re a species of dingleberry, of course, that will likely never happen, as you lack the necessary abilities to practice any meaningful form of self-examination. Oftentimes, that can be amusing, especially when you do stupid things that everyone gets an opportunity to observe. We need that sort of thing, as it gives us something about which to feel smug. Besides, since you’re little more than an ingrown hair on society’s scrotum, we have no obligation to feel sorry for you. Simply put, that’s what I call entertainment.
I know what’s going on inside my own head. I know who I am, and I know what I am about, and I have a mission…even if it’s a tiny one that doesn’t involve a car chase. You can’t know that…unless you get in here with me, and I’m telling you now that there are too many people in here already, so you’re not going to fit. I know, it sucks to be left out, but only if you were actually demonstrating a desire to find out what’s really going on. So far, you haven’t shown any signs of that sort of thing, so there is no way that I’m going to hold your reservation. Sure, you can just show up, but chances are you’re going to have to sleep in the manger. I have to warn you that the girl who is currently living there is certainly not a virgin, but that can be construed in more than one way, so you pick a direction. I’m not going to judge you (well, I am, but I’m not going to TELL you I’m judging you). Besides, didn’t we already determine that you’re little more than a non-functioning protuberance on the mamma of a male member of Phacochoerus aethiopicus? Wait. Did we establish that, or am I just making shit up? Geez, I hate it when that happens.
By this point, you may be asking yourself if you’re a better person for having come this far. While normally I would readily admit that the question is debatable, I’m going to reassure you by telling you that you’ve been somewhere that nobody else has, which is usually pretty cool when it comes down to it. You can brag about it, and tell all your friends, and then you can finally settle comfortably into your disappointment when you realize that not only are there no prizes for your accomplishment, but nobody really cares. Funny, huh? That’s sort of how the Universe works in general, and we both know that there’s not a damned thing you can do about it. It’s kind of like a ride…a very slow, sometimes very lame, ride. Around and around we go, and where we stop…well…it’s usually right before those red octagons. Hell, why wouldn’t we? They say “STOP” right smack in the middle of them.
I have an obligation to go next door and water the plastic Jesus in my neighbor’s front yard, so I’m going to have to cut this short. They figure if I do it often enough, someone will see it crying and start some kind of revolution that relies heavily on a pilgrimage. I don’t have the heart to tell them that their plan is really stupid. I also promised my wife I would make a grilled cheese sandwich for the guinea pigs, rub some lotion on the dogs, and then put a flat tire on the car so we won’t actually be lying when we use it as an excuse tomorrow not to go anywhere. I don’t like lying. It’s not what I do. At this time, you can probably make peace with the fact that you have no idea what I’m trying to accomplish here, and you can be secure in the knowledge that those minutes are gone forever and will never be back. To be honest, I, too, have no idea what’s going on. Even so, I have the benefit of an agenda and that’s something to which you are not privy. My apologies. As I said, there seems to be No Vacancy. Besides, didn’t you read the title? Try me next week. Maybe I’ll put you on the short list.