Rabid Bulldog

You guys? I’ve thought this over and i think the best thing for everybody is if i just sell out, write a crappy bestseller, take the revenue and drift into relative obscurity until i’m an old lady screaming at fast-moving traffic with an aging bulldog and a confederate army pistol by my side. And when people say “what the hell is your problem, you nasty old reptile??” I’ll say “Suck my balls i wrote a book once.” And then they’ll say “Yeah? What book?” and i’ll tell them and then they’ll ask “So… were the first few chapters really just part of Roderigo’s dream?” and i’ll say “I gotta take my pills. Go away” and then my bulldog, French Fry, will bite their ankle.

I’ve spent a good number of years trying to figure things out. Which is just hipster for “There is only one thing I’m good at doing in the entire goddamned world and for some fucking reason, I’m too…” (What? Proud? Embarrassed? Shy? Cantankerous?) “to do it.”

Most people are lucky. They are good at lots of things but their dream is to be a tortured genius. Their dream is to follow some fantasmagoria of creativity and die alone in an apartment with only the musky odour of cat piss and loneliness to usher them into the next world. But they’re not very good at that. So they do the things they’re good at and find out “Hey, life as an accountant/programmer/doctor/teacher/garbage man isn’t so bad after all!” and by some miracle, do everything right. Stay out of debt. Settle down by 28. Have lots of babies. Buy a house and eventually die.

Then there are other people. Those people who know there is something about them that is… well the politically correct term is “unique” but the REALITY is more like… “a little peculiar”. Who aren’t good at anything really. Except that ONE THING. They’re like weird idiot savants… who really DO want that secure job, the quiet life, the four stupid kids who’ll run you ragged and bleed you dry before taking the last of your pathetic old age pension and head for the hills to start their own mediocre lives. These are the people who, after getting kicked out of school for being retarded, kicked out of the army for being anatomically incorrect and finally wind up in a patent office where they sit every day thinking “What’s the point of all this?” finally realize that Life, The User Guide, was not written for them. (And no.. i’m not comparing myself to Einstein. Well.. maybe I am. But in the most unflattering way possible.)

These are the people who just CAN’T do things the way most people do things. Because there is something else they have to do.

That wouldn’t be so bad. Being a tortured genius, i mean it sounds good on paper. Lots of things sound good on paper. “Bacon-infused sugar pizza” sounds good on paper but let me tell you now, eat just ONE of those motherfuckers and your mistake will fast become clear. My brain sees no problem with eating a giant disc of dough covered in bacon, maple syrup and truffle oil (yes. I’ve actually eaten this.) but my stomach, the reality check of my entire existence, is always swift to tell me otherwise.

Society is kind of like my stomach. The bacon-infused sugar pizza of my “gift” is not something it wants to contend with. Society, when you think about it, is sort of a dick. It wants great minds to push it forward in a neverending deluge of human progression but does not want to support the process necessary to achieve this. It wants those great minds of every generation to shit their brilliance out, quietly and effortlessly, after putting in an 8 hour day doing a job they can’t stand to come home to an empty house because, shit you guys, they have to CONTRIBUTE more than the average person. They owe it to their aggressors, their naysayers. Their tormentors.

They are held to a higher standard than the rest of you. Being hated for being weird implies great responsibility. 

I think the sheer volume of digestive similes I’ve puked out so far (yeah? Did you see how i did that?) should give even the average reader the strong impression that I feel like I’m being eaten alive. And I do. It’s not enough that you won’t let the “gifted” (again, i prefer the word “peculiar” but whatever…) folks of this world do the work they have to do to make you feel like humanity isn’t a giant waste of time, you then take credit for what they have achieved as if it is a cumulative outcome of humanity’s Great Brilliance. How many times do I see some moron on facebook post a quote from Einstein, Twain or even fucking Kafka as a way of trying to justify their own existence? To say “Look what I have somehow inexplicably achieved. I have not only hit the ‘share’ button,  I UNDERSTAND the impact of these words. Therefore I am an important PIECE of history.”

When the reality is that in any given day, you people encounter countless Einsteins and Twains – maybe not Kafkas because well… there aren’t many of them out there. Thank god. – and you scorn the shit out of them. And it’s because of the scorn of the masses that these people are able to eventually rise above everything they’re ever told is wrong with them or, better yet, CAPITALIZE on what they’re told is wrong with them, to dog-ear their OWN pages in history. That’s not you. You didn’t do that. THEY did that. Greatly sacrificing their reputation with society in order that one day society can take credit for the things they had to overcome it to achieve.

So why do these great minds owe you, society, anything at all? Why don’t they say “fuck this shit” and do what i plan to do. Write crappy bestsellers, rabid bulldogs by their side?

Here’s the secret. Those minds don’t owe you shit. They do it for the same reason most of you have those four kids. They do it for the same reason you go out and get hammered on a friday night so you can fail the YMCA mime without feeling like a jackass. They do it for the same reason most of you go to the bathroom.

They can’t help it.

For the love of god.. just let me write. If you, society, will just allow me to do that and absolve me of any other fiscal or social human responsibility, I will, in turn, create something that your kids can one day feel like they were a part of.

Just please.. leave me be. Don’t force me to join you for the bad when none of you want me around for the good. Let me live apart from your boring nonsense. If you want people who can’t do anything else to lift themselves above the day-to-day crap the rest of you thrive on, then LET US, for the love of god. Don’t make it so hard for us to hang on to the edges of your world.

interracting

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