Your whole life, if judged by your musical and literary preferences can be interpreted as a celebration of the derivative. Then what are you? What does one call a derivative of a derivative? Here, let’s mock the character list of admired mediocrity.
Muse? The bastard, near-aborted child of U2 and Rush, complete with overstated odes to latent late-teen female angst (you mock Fall Out Boy, but, really, isn’t that just splitting hairs). 311? Enough said. That shitty, fourth-wave ska band from Georgetown? They were much better 20 years ago when they were called Sublime. Quantum mechanics? Explain Schrödinger’s pussy. Ayn Rand? Yeah, right. You finished The Fountainhead? There couldn’t have been time given all the bongs, blow, and blow jobs. Am I really that shallow that my reflection off a beautiful, flawed face was enough of an ego trip to feign substance? I guess love will tear us apart again. And again, apparently.
I’ve been reflecting on the differences. The similarities at one time seemed compelling but are shallow and in their sum are less than this fundamental fact: whatever happened–whatever he did–has pulled up defenses to the point that speaking a painful truth is impossible.
We are, both of us, liars–master manipulators; you with your physical beauty, and contrived erudition, and me with words and swagger. The difference? I know we’re lying.
If this feels like an excoriation, it isn’t. The truth is uncomfortable at first if you’re not used to it. You are a fucking liar. Not for the casual omissions and commissions tossed off to the friends, lovers, and husband that rake the path of your life, but the internal soundtrack you repeat again and again and again. And again. I’m okay. Everything is okay. Things will be okay.
Everything is not okay. Everything is fucked. And until you extricate yourself from the numbing ashes of your nuclear family, beauty-groupies, and the constant ingestion of psycho-actives and meaningless sexual encounters, you’ll never be free. It’s the only road back; the last tether to hope. Cut it at your infinite peril.
Her friends all seemed nice, she was getting good grades. But when she came home for Christmas she just seemed distant and different. — The Hold Steady
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You can’t tell people what they want to hear, if you also want to tell the truth
Your whole life, if judged by your musical and literary preferences can be interpreted as a celebration of the derivative. Then what are you? What does one call a derivative of a derivative? Here, let’s mock the character list of admired mediocrity.
Muse? The bastard, near-aborted child of U2 and Rush, complete with overstated odes to latent late-teen female angst (you mock Fall Out Boy, but, really, isn’t that just splitting hairs). 311? Enough said. That shitty, fourth-wave ska band from Georgetown? They were much better 20 years ago when they were called Sublime. Quantum mechanics? Explain Schrödinger’s pussy. Ayn Rand? Yeah, right. You finished The Fountainhead? There couldn’t have been time given all the bongs, blow, and blow jobs. Am I really that shallow that my reflection off a beautiful, flawed face was enough of an ego trip to feign substance? I guess love will tear us apart again. And again, apparently.
I’ve been reflecting on the differences. The similarities at one time seemed compelling but are shallow and in their sum are less than this fundamental fact: whatever happened–whatever he did–has pulled up defenses to the point that speaking a painful truth is impossible.
We are, both of us, liars–master manipulators; you with your physical beauty, and contrived erudition, and me with words and swagger. The difference? I know we’re lying.
If this feels like an excoriation, it isn’t. The truth is uncomfortable at first if you’re not used to it. You are a fucking liar. Not for the casual omissions and commissions tossed off to the friends, lovers, and husband that rake the path of your life, but the internal soundtrack you repeat again and again and again. And again. I’m okay. Everything is okay. Things will be okay.
Everything is not okay. Everything is fucked. And until you extricate yourself from the numbing ashes of your nuclear family, beauty-groupies, and the constant ingestion of psycho-actives and meaningless sexual encounters, you’ll never be free. It’s the only road back; the last tether to hope. Cut it at your infinite peril.