Saturday, April 12, 2003
I Am Happy Because I'm Comparing
Myself to a Corpse
Though I was hoping to be able to achieve happiness through other means, I
must now be content with the happiness that comes from comparing oneself to a
rotting corpse. All previous attempts at happiness have failed.
"Other
Means"
I employed various methods at different points in time to try to find
happiness and to pull myself out of the monotonous series of socially
awkward moments that is my life. I invested a lot of time and money
in many local coffee shops, assuming that if I only kept going back, one
of the cute baristas behind the counter would eventually feel compelled
to slip her phone number into my espresso. Then, when I got to the
final sip of my latte, I would find my lips tickled by the soggy piece
of receipt tape that she had used to express her attraction to me, as
well as her amazement that somebody who drinks as much coffee as I do
could still be single. In this instance, as in so many others, I
found all my assumptions obliterated by the cold bastard of a teacher
that is real-life experience. There was never a piece of paper at
the bottom of my cup, only the occasional instance of a barista elevating
her voice in casual conversation with a coworker, making sure I heard
her mention her boyfriend.
Not being much of a risk-taker, I moved immediately
from this disappointment to what I believed was a sure thing: drugs.
Though drug-users often ruin their lives, they also experience euphoria and
enlightenment while doing so. To me, this seemed like a trade-off that
would be well worth it. Unfortunately, before I ever experienced the
euphoria of drug-use, I got the enlightenment. I had always thought that
the two would occur simultaneously, but that most certainly was not the case
when I ingested a small handful of psychedelic mushrooms. As I sat alone
in my living room watching the ceiling throb, I came to the mind-blowing
realization that my life was much, much worse than I had ever previously
imagined. It was as if a protective layer had been removed from my psyche,
allowing me to look honestly at myself and see the horrifying truth of what a
failed human being I was. I also realized in this moment that not only did
those baristas not secretly lust for me in their most private thoughts, but they
didn't even enjoy making small chit-chat with me as they prepared my
drinks. It was in the way their eyes grew vacant; in the way their nipples
deflated, crestfallen, upon my approach-----how could I have not seen this
before? I suffered deeply that night, but it was the suffering that comes
with being abruptly awakened from a wonderful sleep.
My next attempt to become happy occurred in my doctor's
office. After easily convincing him that I was miserable, he put me on anti-depressants.
Two weeks later, I was surprised to find that my misery was departing, only to
be replaced with...nothing. This is why they're called
"anti-depressants" rather than "pro-happinesses". The
absence of misery does not necessarily indicate the presence of joy, any more
than the absence of pussy sitting on my lap indicates the presence of pussy
sitting on my face. After several weeks of thinking about writing an
article explaining my experiences with these drugs, I was forced to stop taking
them just so I could scrape up the motivation to start typing.
The
Last Resort
But now I am happy, in the only way I know how. Every day, when sadness
begins to creep, I ask myself if I would rather be a rotting corpse.
Invariably, the answer is "no". Here's why:
Me:
Has a small penis.
Rotting Corpse: Has a small, smelly, rotten penis.
Me:
Despised by baristas.
Rotting Corpse: Acts as compost, much like discarded coffee
grounds.
Me:
Has to put up with disrespect from co-workers.
Rotting Corpse: Has to put up with disrespect from maggots, who eat
him.
Me:
I am kind of a pussy.
Rotting Corpse: Hole in middle of face where nose used to be kind
of looks like a pussy.
Me:
Can't get sex.
Rotting Corpse: Can't get the beetles inside of him to stop
fucking.
Me:
Has a hairy ass.
Rotting Corpse: Has a mossy, dead ass.
Me:
Wouldn't mind having sex with a rotting corpse.
Rotting Corpse: Can't stop me from having sex with it.
