Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Bitches Eat Free

Back again, back again... Can you really be back somewhere if you didn't leave though? I'm sick of all these paradoxes I seem to be running into, solely based on the fact that I think about things way too much. It's almost worth offending or ostracizing a room of people just so I know that I'm not thinking.

Alcohol helps with this generally. But with alcohol, comes that period of time the next morning when you have to think about all the people you may have hurt. If your knuckles aren't pushed back into the middle of your hand or ripped open, there's a good chance you didn't hurt anyone physically (though not a bad idea to check your shoes for blood.)

I've never been one for philosophy, or regrets. I find them both ridiculous in their own ways. Philosophy has been a way for 'intellectuals' to ponder life's meanings and argue one point or another in some banal and stiff collared fashion since those Man-loving Greeks. I do like Voltaire, but he was an entertainer. French AND a total douche? Who would have thought those two qualities could have been in one man? Especially a French man...

"Regrets? I've had a few... but then again, too few to mention." Ol' Blue Eyes, or Sid Vicious, depending on who you ask, said it best. I have these moments of regret from time to time. Not that I've done anything truly horrible in my day, but when it comes down to it, it's the things I haven't or won't do that really get me in those metaphorical "Gun in mouth" moods.

I'll never kill myself. I'll never be able to deprive the world from doing so. I'll never find what I'm looking for. I'll never be as happy as I could be. Why? Because I've become too philosophical. I put more thought into the idea of things instead of actually doing them, and for that, I torture myself.

"But 'Hans' why don't you just do the things you want to? As long as they're not totally outrageous or expensive beyond belief, what the fuck man?"

It's simple really. Too simple, and thus requires this stupid mound of brain tissue to get all fucking prosy and muck things up. The worst I can do is fail. The worst anyone can say is no. But god damn, if it didn't come with the awkward, soul crushing, heart splitting feeling of defeat.

This is becoming the diary of an adolescent girl. If I post next week that I finally got my period and how Eve 6 is awesome, someone please kill me, since I can't even do it to myself.

le sigh.

1 comment:

marmitelover@mac.com said...

But Hans, most French men ARE total douches...I should know, I've slept with enough of 'em...