I was reminded last night of my very inappropriate reactions to people's serious emotional experiences. When a girl in a movie gets half-way raped (yes, half-way, you heard me) and after a couple of scene changes you are yelling for her to "fucking get over it already, it's been more than a week!" people will not generally agree. I just can't imagine staying seriously emotionally involved in a conflict like that for more than a week. After 7 days you should have been able to think through and cope with all the necessary trauma. Not to say that there won't be residual damage, of course there will be, but you don't have to sit and cry and bitch and moan about it. How does that help you move on in any way? It doesn't. And yes I have been through something equally as terrible, but I dealt with it and got on with my life. Break-ups for instance, though not nearly as traumatic, should only be mourned for a week. A drunken week yes, but 7 days nonetheless. There is nothing that you can't handle within 7 days. If God can make the universe in that amount of time then you can get over the death of your dog, Scraps. Not only am I not sympathetic to the self-pity-ridden (of whom I occasionally qualify), but physical pain, death, carnage, or senseless tragedy all elicit an initial laugh from me. Not because I don't care or think that they are funny, but rather because no one is ever expecting the full weight of something like that to be dropped on them at once, and I have never heard of it happening gradually so we won't consider that. When faced with such a scene I laugh. It is my brain's way of keeping things from getting out of hand in the hysteria department. It allows me to keep my cool in a serious situation. And I do. Often. So if you ever divulge some painfull secret to me, or have a broken bone or something, don't expect the norm reaction from me. I will be sympathetic, but in a way that might seem a little harsh eventhough it is for your benefit in the long run. I mean, get over it, pussy.
I enjoy going to the bathroom for a long time, especially at work. The problem is when someone else, specifically a cute female someone else sees you going in, and even worse she is going into the other bathroom. This then creates the following situation: you are prevented from staying in there very long. She knows what you are doing, but not exactly what you are doing, and vice versa. You hear the toilet flush through the wall, and you know exactly what she
was doing. Now, if you don't emerge before or shortly after this cute female she too will know exactly what you are
doing. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out. Why is this bad you might be wondering? I'll tell you why? Because if you are moving your bowels, that implies that you have bowels, and that implies organs, and organs implies organism, and no one wants to be an organism. Organisms exist around a system of eat, excrete, mate, sleep (not necessarily in that order), and then they die. To be an organism is not only to confront your mortality head on, but someone else knowing that you are an organism means that they know of your mortality as well. The part that we each play in the life cycle, and the eventual ending of our lives goes mostly ignored everyday as do many other unpleasant aspects of existence. It just makes things easier to cope with. So, now this cute girl knows that you are an organism, that lives and shits, and dies, and is fallible in a hundred different ways, and eventhough she isn't consciously considering all this at the time that she discerns what you are
doing in that bathroom, she still realizes it subconsciously and it affects her decision to mark you off the list of potential mates. All this because she realizes (in actuality she was probably thinking of a hundred million other things and paying no mind to the guy who went into the bathroom once he had crossed the threshold of the porcelain chapel) that you are still in the bathroom when she comes out. But then again I never did hear her wash her hands. I mean, shit man, that is just gross.
Shitman was a song by the band Green Jelly (formerly Green Jell-o), which was the first band that I listened to to ever say "shit" while my mom was listening. She didn't seem to care. Not nearly as much as she did when I bought NIN and the word "fuck" came up in our mutual company. She took that tape from me and hid it in her sock drawer and forgot about it, and where I eventually found it some months later, but by then it didn't matter because I was already way into my Nirvana phase which would last for years to come, so NIN was just a less pure form of art to me. I still don't know if she realized that tape was missing from her sock drawer. A month later the song Shitman would get me kicked out of my friend Nick's house because his parents were the kind of conservatives who don't like to walk past their garage door to hear a couple of 10-year-olds singing "Shitman" over and over again to a background of fast-rockin' guitars. Some people just don't know art when they see it. Although I did once pass off a drawing that my sister's boyfriend did of a cougar as one of my own and they asked to keep it. And Nick's dad is the one who made me listen to The Rolling Stones. I guess they weren't all bad. They had just lived in Ohio for too long. It can do that to you if you're not careful.