Being sad is
much more pleasant than studying. I’ve never really cared for my studies. Well,
actually, a long time ago, I did use to take pride in my ability to surpass
others academically. But that’s what I took joy in; being the smartass.
Knowledge itself didn’t bring me any happiness. If anything, it just made me
more depressed, which I became painfully aware of at the age of fifteen after
familiarizing myself with Mersault’s story.
Eventually,
I came to detest the idea of seeing myself as an intelligent person. I don’t
know if it’s because I actually began to lose my intellect, or because I
genuinely hated the condescending attitude most “smart” people have towards the
rest of the world. Regardless, by the age of seventeen, I shunned most of my
responsibilities, neglected my schoolwork, and contemplated various
self-destructive activities, ranging from the mundane (smoking weed) to the
ultimate self-injury (offing myself). Of course, sticking your mouth in a bong
that’s been fuck-knows-where gets old after a while, so jumping in front of a
moving car seemed to be a much more permanent solution to my existential dilemma.
When you
think about it, death can potentially be a much better alternative to studying
than procrastination or experimenting with psychedelic substances. After all,
the desire to do these types of things stems from being alive. Why should one
take ‘shrooms or mindlessly surf the internet or fuck a girl in the anus when
you can get rid of those yearnings in the first place? To satisfy these wants
is like chopping at a tree’s branches rather than its trunk to take it down. In
my opinion, the true hedonist, to truly live for pleasure, must eliminate the
source for that pleasure, which in the case of most of us, is life. Think about
it. What can possibly be more pleasing than eliminating everything that makes
us unhappy? I mean, sure, you won’t be able to enjoy the small things in life,
since you’ll be laying stiff on the ground, possibly on a pool of your own
blood, but it will also mean you won’t be vexed by life’s little inconveniences,
like unrequited love or unbearable loneliness.
It sucks so
much to not have anyone by your side. By that, I don’t mean a living and
breathing sack of flesh and bones walking by your side all day. I mean someone
who actually listens to the bullshit you’re talking about, and someone who
wants to know if something is wrong when you’re sobbing uncontrollably, in the freezing cold, after consuming a dangerous amount of
alcohol. Even when you have camaraderie like that, life can still be a bitch,
because of a bitch.
The world
always manages to find a way to keep you from being with that “special someone”:
the girl (or guy) doesn’t love you back, you’re too afraid to tell her, or she’s
already head over heels for some other asshole (which, by default, probably
means she wouldn’t love you were she free, anyway). Sometimes, that person just
wants to be your friend, and she might care for you, but not in the same way
that you do. Now that, ladies and gentlemen, fucking sucks. It’s a siren
steering you straight into the rocks. She just wants to serenade you so you can
keep her company, but unintentionally, she’s digging you a deep grave.
In
retrospect, I think that might not be so bad. I mean, if someone is bordering
on the path towards true nirvana (which, in my opinion, can only be reached by
giving a shotgun barrel a blowjob), then a little catalyst for impulsive action
wouldn’t hurt. After all, the pain stops as soon after the brain splatters all
over. Now, I hate it when people come up with the whole “you're hurting your
family” overused, and stupidly unfounded argument. First of all, when you’re
dead, the whole concept of your family grieving for you will be absolutely
meaningless. Also, it’s none of your family’s goddamn business what you want to
do with your life. And of course, your family should be strong enough to get
over it. I mean, you’re going to die anyways, at one point. It shouldn’t be an
event that’s out of the question. They’re going to die, too, if you were
unaware.
No one is
obligated to stay alive. If you can’t enjoy life, then it’s a waste to be
living. Life becomes less like a carnival ride and more like the line you have
to stand in to enjoy it. And if you’re afraid of burning in an eternal lake of
fire because of it, well, then don’t think about it. Nobody knows for certain
if that’s going to happen to you or not, so it’s of no use wondering. All you
can do is cross your fingers, and hope there’s a religion out there where
everybody goes to heaven, and it’s dead-on accurate.
So in the
spirit of Marx and Engels, take up arms, razors, or whatever, and embrace the
desire for self-inflicted injury. Start a revolution. Or not. It doesn’t really
matter to me. I honestly don’t give a fuck.
