I am a very passive person, despite my internet persona. I rarely whine about things where I am available to be punched in the face, and most of the time I will respond to questions about preference with a shrug. Many may think this is apathy. It’s not, because I am more often than not happier with catering to someone else’s more specific preferences because it makes them happy.
I really do care where we eat dinner. Kind of. I don’t like broccoli, mushrooms, and mint, but seriously other than that it’s all good. I like food. Big fan.
It’s not that I don’t let people step on me: I become homicidally insane at the first sign that someone wants to make me do something that I am opposed to. I am willing to eat my way through someone’s throat while they are still alive if I happen to feel that it is necessary.
But I probably won’t.
This is, to all exterior appearances a crippling form of madness, but it’s really just picking my fights. People get caught up trying to learn how to care, and most people suck at it their entire life. They decide that fighting on the Burger King Twitter count towards anything other than their Douche Credit Rating.
The opposite end of this are people who go the other way because they think that caring is too mainstream, but if there is anything worse than picking at the offal of the bloodied back-alleys of civilization, it’s being too lazy to deal with the things that actually matter.
Every time I see an individual, or even an entire sub-culture whose defining features include some form of apathy, I want to throw them in a dumpster out back of the cafeteria. Those people are the worst. If you are one of those people, and you will deny it, YOU ARE THE WORST
Here’s a real quick life guide:
2.Don’t be a dick.
4.Don’t be a dick.
5.Do the right thing no matter what.
6.Repeat rules 2 and 4 until the day you die.
Got it? Probably not, but hey, I tried.
Whenever I am on Twitter, I retweet brilliant stuff to my Facebook. That’s all well and good and gets 3 or 4 likes on a good day. When I write my own 140-character works of heart-rending, soul-searing genius, I get 1-2 likes, which are always Kristi or my Mom. While I am glad those two wonderful ladies appreciate my James Joycian eccentricity, the rest of y’all jive turkeys can bite me.
I posted my first two entries, I really did. Life was good, I was ready for my yearly accolades. You know so many new people this time around, Dylan. They’ll love it. You’ll finally be cool enough to sit with the football players in the cafeteria. You’ll be a god, a radiant form of transcendent un-matter bound within the humble yet infinitely deceptive confines of mortal flesh.
I got 1-2 likes from Kristi and Mom. I must therefore conclude that the ret of you are foul-treaded, mouth-breathing traitors and disingenuous nincompoops. Whining has no point without there being a known recipient and an unnecessary amount of validation, you ill-starred rabble.
I’ll get back on this tomorrow, though why I should display such generosity to such a pack of carrion-fools, I have no idea.
Last night, I didn’t sleep very well. A full half of my body is stiff and aching. As slight consolation, one of my few dreams involved grabbing and throwing a middle-school aged kid, which happens to be an item on my bucket list. Upon waking, I was greeted with the pleasurable, welcoming taste of having not closed my mouth for 10 hours. This phased into the minty infliction of having nothing but some spare toothpaste in one’s stomach, which passed the torch to the lovely and unforgettable tinge of an anti-depressant.
The thing about not sleeping well is that you can’t just fix it. You get a broken leg, doctors can wrap it up in such a way that you will not continue to injure it. You sleep badly? You can do nothing but continue to spend energy. You are set against the one foe even Thor himself could not wrestle: Time. Like with all Zynga products, you are forced to endure the unstoppable torrent of passing seconds, and no nap great or small will ever heal the wound in your soul inflicted by such deprivation.
You must continue to spend energy regardless of how much you wish to do otherwise, or face a day tossing and turning in your bed like the gross bachelor you are until nighttime rolls around. In fact, the more you try and recover, the more likely it is that you will suffer a further night of doing very little whilst confined to your blankets. Sleep will always win. Every. Singl
Every year in November, I make the habit of being an atrocious hipster contrarian, and share 15 minor things I am wholly unthankful for, as is my First World right. Since I have met and established some manner of social contact with so many people in the past year, my first entry will be a basic one.
Days of Thankfulness
It is entirely possible that the remaining stragglers whom I have not already removed from my Facebook are not participating in the Days of Thankfulness that hit our beloved social network at this time every year. However, I am more inclined to think that this year either entirely sucks, or you people are being lazy.
Either way, there are few more saccharine and insipid eye-pains than the average Day of Thankfulness entry. Usually one or two sentences, and entirely predictable, these entries are generally a pretty grand waste of time for all who have the misfortune to rapidly scroll by in search of their latest poorly phrased science-meme.
Now I’m not spitting on the general idea of being thankful: I could write a dissertation about Kristi that would make her blush a hundred times. I’m spitting on the idea of expressing thankfulness in a way that is entirely unworthy of adult communication skills while being entirely worthy of being shunned by your average self-aware entity - dolphins, for example.
Yeah, I’m real sure you appreciate your husband. Try adding a detail or two. Is it his bacon-bringing job as a corrupt corporate attorney, or is it really that you’re just happy to have 0.75 square meters of your living space occupied by a beer-powered flesh receptacle? If you’re going to brag on someone, firstly be honest that you’re just bragging, and secondly, try expressing what you’re bragging on in more terms than whether or not the subject of your bragging exists.
I ain’t asking for you to pump out Leaves of Grass thirty times in a month, but come on. If you’re really that thankful, spend a calorie or two trying to put together a thought that doesn’t make me involuntarily sneer at my monitor.
I am not Milton. I have not the blood of the great poets in my veins, nor the acumen of expression that belonged to the Romantics. In so lacking the facilities of such well-crafted word, I am left only with a partial and insufficient recounting of what she has done for me above and beyond the necessity of marginal motherhood.
She has guarded me from the barbs and stings oft projected by life, but has allowed me to prick my own fingers on it’s hidden thorns.
She has cast down marauding dragons and hung their jagged teeth above her mantle, one by one, never tiring and never failing, recounting her slaying-tales and imparting to me her methods and lessons.
She has dispersed the clouds and burned away the fog, that I may always find my way.
For these things I can repay her only in gratitude and deed, neither of which she would request, but both of which she has more than earned.
Happy birthday, and may you see many, many more.
Special Delivery, To: Internet, From: Snopes
Special Delivery, To: Internet, From: Snopes
aaaaaaaah I wasn’t sure if that game was a figment of my imagination or not! Weird, pieced-together bits of nostalgia incomiiiing!!!
The Human race has and always will survive by sheer dint of strength. Not the strength of firearms and nations, but the strength of hope and compassion, for no famine or flood, no man-made boundaries or cultural mores, no amount of bullets or death camps can ever dim the light of the spirit and will of but a few good people, and it is on those people that our survival solely lies.
These people give when they have none, and expect nothing. They work and suffer for others, and their only true payment is the happiness of another. They extend mercy in merciless places, and speak when others are silent.
To be one of these people is to be the bedrock of Humanity as well as its tallest, shining spires. Sometimes they must stand and never step back, sometimes they must sit and refuse to budge, sometimes they hold hands and dare the darkness to approach them, but most often they simply find themselves crouched beside someone who needs them for no greater reason than the need itself, and for them there is no greater reason.
These people are the meaning of Christmas, Charlie Brown.
Each year I am subjected to equally insipid and apathetic pre-recorded musical numbers from whiny-voiced Disney people. Go away, you are not a float. Then there is the random tradition of having pieces of Broadway plays performed entirely outside their context or set, which is about as enjoyable as hearing the middle chapter of a book with all the nouns taken out. Then we have to suffer through the doofuses talking over the parade, who get every single fact possible completely wrong, and phrase everything as awkwardly as possible for no conceivable reason.
Don McLean, and Jimmy Fallon and The Roots were boss, though.