Today is sunny and beautiful, if a little chilly. I slept in. I’m currently applying the last bits of my juggalo makeup before I head out and face the day. I’ve got a meeting this afternoon with a young go getter concerning a project I’ve been balls deep in for the last several months. Yes, that’s right people. It’s a miracle. I’m suddenly no longer upset to be unemployed. I’ve embraced my juggalodom. Hack on, uh…hatcheteers, or whatever dumb shit they say.
Nah, it’s not really genuine to say that I’m not upset at being unemployed. Losing my job sucks. No two ways about it. I’m happy to be out of that shithole though. I never again have to deal with those self important mongaloids. That’s a feeling of joy that can only be truly expressed by using a poo analogy (heh…poo ANALogy. Good one…heh).
Okay then:
When you really have to poo, you can try to do other things, but there’s this hot thing in your guts that’s not really letting you relax and have fun. You can go on the roller coaster. You can talk on the phone with your friends, you can try to lay down and take a nap. You can do any number of things, but that burning poo is still there in the corner of your mind, ruining your day. Now, for this analogy to work, we’ve got to assume that there’s a reason you don’t want to just poo. Let’s say your toilet’s broken and you’d have to go downstairs to a good looking girl’s house and pretty much come in there specifically to poo, stink shit up and then leave. You hate that you harbor this poo, but getting rid of it would be humiliating and ultimately depressing.
Well, you can see where this is going, right? You go down, you bite the bullet. The poo is forcing you. You can’t hold out any longer. There’s unpleasantness. You walk away just ashamed. You can’t look your wife in the eye. You blog about it.
But then! Suddenly there’s an unexpected spring in your step and you can sleep, you can talk on the phone with your friends and you can ride the roller coaster and you can just enjoy it because you know that rotten turd is out of your life forever and you never have to deal with it again. Sure, there will be more turds, but maybe they’ll be better, or maybe your toilet will be fixed by then. That’s how I feel. I’m no longer beholden to those people and that crappy place and it’s wonderful. Remember two days ago I wrote about worries. Most of my worries were bound up in my identity as a bartender in a crappy bar and grill and not making a lot of money. Well, now I’m no longer a bartender at a crappy bar and grill and I make no money, but guess what? I’m not afraid of that. And THAT, kiddos, is the lesson for today.
Fear makes you old and what breeds fear? Any Buddhists out there? That’s right, Potsie! Attachment breeds fear. If you have nothing (see, for example a dude who lives in the desert in a shed who’s whole family is dead thanks to firebombing) you can do anything, from telling the pope to go fuck himself to flying a plane into a building. Now, I’m not suggesting that either of those are healthy ways to exploit a lack of fear. Just proving a point. No attachments = no fear.
But, you get a house with some things you like in it. Suddenly, you don’t want scumbags just up in your stuff. That’s a small bit of fear creeping in. the guy in the shed has no fear of scumbags. But you’ve got an xbox and some oreos and you’ll be goddamned if some fucking creep from down the road is gonna eat your oreos and sell your xbox. Lock the doors.
How bout then you get a real nice place, filled with all sorts of stuff you like. Suddenly, it’s not just the scumbag down the road that’s a threat, but the whole neighborhood. You can’t just be living in squalor when there’s all sorts of your favorites in your house.
Bring in some friends, perhaps someone to love…Now you’ve got a situation where even strangers are kind of creepy. You don’t want that person you love walking home late at night by themselves. Even though they’ve done it zillions of times before you knew them and they’ve arrived fine and you (obviously) NEVER worried about them before you knew them, now you harbor this faceless fear of the streets.
Finally, have a kid. EVERYTHING becomes terrifying. Molesters=traffic=light sockets=flights of stairs=priests=bad education systems=bullies=bad kids=heavy metal lyrics and on and on like this. You’re so fucking wrapped up in fear that you can’t move. That’s why your parents are lame. They’re terrified for you (or, they’re not, in which case they’re totally lame as well, but for different reasons).
BUT, it’s all a fear of that shit getting taken away, and once your house gets blasted back into sand and everything you love is dust, you’ll be sad. Probably sadder than you’ve ever been, but you won’t be afraid. Not at all. You’ll be like Rambo. Hard hearted, sad, ready to die and fearless.
And THAT’S the craziest part: We are all, deep down, most afraid of not being afraid. Kennedy had it completely backwards. The only thing to fear is the death of fear. How’s that for some deep shit to take you into the weekend?
Anyway, point being, fuck that dumb job and thanks for all the good words.
Who’s going to see K’naan this weekend? I sure am. See you there!
