marge

And I guess it was somewhere around this time that she had to accept that she was ordinary. Really, really ordinary. The thought had been looming somewhere, in the back of her brain, for quite some time, a lumbering beast that barely evaded detection. Motherfuckin' sasquatch, so huge and hairy that you have to wonder how something that should be so obvious manages to escape detection for so long. Apparently there are a lot of trees in that forest, and I can't see the trees for all the little leaves I've used to construct some sort of fundamental identity and comfortable notion of supremacy. Somewhere in all that minutia, I've lost sight of the grass, moss, bark, and somehow, a big fucking monster called banality that looks a lot like that slightly skewed, sleepy-eyed face I see staring back in every vaguely reflective pane of glass.

Damn, did I slip perspective? You can only talk about yourself in the third person for so long before you realize that there is no third person, there is no point in the he/she pronoun, because we are ultimately really selfish bastards, and no one actually matters to us, any more than us (I). For as long as you can hold off on that understanding, that is how long the third person really matters to you. Second person is twice as useless. "You do this," hasn't been a relevant option in life since you/I/they stopped reading "Choose Your Own Adventure," books. "You do this..." Oh fuck you. I always tell myself I will stop even trying to identify.

The years of deconstructionist theory should have broken down any misguided notions of expression or understanding, and I can throw it out as casually as I flick a cigarette -- "Yeah, hey, it's cool, language is fallible and intangible and anything we say is ultimately lost in the translation between pre-established connotations that differ by individual and experience, regardless of if they are speaking the same "language," and it doesn't really matter anyway, because, you know, beyond that, language is just a string of identifiers that really just exist as an extension of the idea that 'what is'" (throw up the 'ironic' -- which by definition isn't really ironic, except for maybe in an Alanis sense of the word -- finger quotes), "is by default what it 'is not,' so it all becomes bogged down in how when I am saying this I am definitely not saying that, but I'm definitely not saying anything, really. So yeah, I just said a whole lot of nothing, and you just heard a whole lot of nothing I was actually trying to convey, which doesn't matter either, because I don't even know what I'm trying to convey, because it is all totally arbitrary. It's cool, baby, I don't know much, but what I do know is that we don't understand a goddammed thing about each other. Hand me another Pabst."

Suddenly it all becomes alright, because when you said, "I miss you," what you really said to me is, "I exist, and I want to think that other important things exist, because those so-called important things affirm to me that I exist," and what I really heard was, "You exist, and I want you to exist in my physical presence right now, but cannot," and really what I am thinking is, "I exist, and I want to think that other important things exist, and I want you to remember that I exist, because existing in the memories of these other so-called important things affirms to me that I exist."

Suddenly it becomes alright, because when it all comes down to it, we always wind up saying, "That is not it at all, that was not what I meant, at all." (Let the record stand I only half-consciously realized what I was typing as I was typing it. I'm only half-pretentious -- albeit totally obvious -- right now.) Every argument just winds down to both parties screaming, "You don't fucking get it!" I propose we just throw rocks at each other instead.

I also propose we omit all pronouns except for first person pronoun -- I promise to get increasingly cyclical before I am done here, I cannot promise I will tie it all up in some neat little package at the end -- this is, naturally, due to our inherent short-sightedness. "What we talk about when we talk about us." That is garbage, all we are ever talking about is us. Or ourselves. Or myself.

A friend just messaged me:
"Whats up"

I respond:
"Deciding that I will heretofore use no pronoun except for first person, and everything and everyone shall now be 'I,' 'me,' and 'my.'"

and follow up with,

"So what am I doing?"

His response:
"going tothe dentst" (No, really, he really types like that. Why are some of the most brilliant people I've ever met, damn near fucking illiterate?)

My response:
"Am I going to get a front on my grill? I'd look good with some platinum shields, maybe a little flash of diamonds that read, "Thug Life," or "Over Bite," or "Mundane."

His response:
"haha i love u"

My response:
"I love me, too."


See how easy that was? Completely upfront, no bullshit added, I am, as I have always been, talking about me, even when I was talking about... me. As an added benefit, I get to love me by the end of it.

Sasquatch says, "Man, fuck your solipsism."