/rant against things I love
If buses ran in this part of the country, I’d be on them. I’d bring a camera and a sketch pad. I’d pick out the freaks (as buses tend to attract them) and I’d sketch them or film them as I say things like, “How could you let yourself go THAT FAR?” or “I’m sure glad I didn’t look like that when I was getting treatment” or “I hope you can’t have children. So does God.”
I’d get looks, stares, and furrowed brows of disgust, but I’d laugh. What do these people know? Ugliness as a coping mechanism. Smelliness, dirtiness, unemployment as a coping mechanism. Mine, I guess, is insults. Loud insults, at that.
I start to get off the bus when “Dashboard Confessional” comes on the air. “Oh, MAN!” I yell to everyone who until recently had no reason to hate me. “Can you believe this cry baby??” I get off the bus, but I start to talk to myself. What is the deal with this kid? He’s obviously a suburban, big-city, well-off, rich, whiny-pants republican who spends too much time writing poetry and playing his six string sympathy attractor. Nothing worse than a white, spoiled brat with a nail’s head full of talent and plenty of backing funds from Mum and Pop. “Oh, I’m so sad. I don’t have a girlfriend.” Maybe that’s because you’re real love needs tuning when you leave her over night in your volkwagen beetle. Who buys it in bright red anyway? Red like the blood from your bleeding heart, pansy. I bet you pick flowers and give them to your mom. Looks like you should get friendly with your strumming hand there, Bra.
How about girls? I think about this as I near home, being dropped off an UnGodly distance from my actual location. Everyone complains about how badly the Jews and Pals are fighting, but the battle between Male and Female has been going on a whole lot longer. I can guarentee it’s bloodier, too. Girls, with their lipstick, lip gloss, lip highlighter, lip this and that. Who the hell cares. Lips get chapped and scarred and they are the most worthless piece of flesh on a human boday. Find me a good reason for them, besides spreading disease and heartache, and I’ll cut mine off gladly.
Girls, they sit in their groups, going to the bathroom, chatting about how evil boys are when what they are really doing is setting the bait. If you hate fishing so much, why buy the boat, girls? Perfumes, nail polish, clothing the Dutch would blush at and all so you’ll have more war stories when that same group of you sit around and watch “You’ve Got Mail” for the 90th time. I can’t believe you still cry for that movie.
I get home and pull out a Chuck Palaniuk book. Doesn’t matter which one, because they’re all the same. They all have some over intellectual main character with too many psychosis or neurosis to be one piece. This main character’s life starts to (or has been) falling apart. Go figure – none of Chuck’s characters are “normal.” Could this be because Chuck himself is more broken than a fat girl’s mirror?
It seems that whenever someone talks in a Chuck book, it’s like hearing Tyler Durden. You thought Tyler was a unique character? He’s not. He’s Chuck’s character. They all spew out these pretty little sound bites about God or the government or society in general. Everyone has a complaint and a solution, and the solution is never a logical one.
The only way to make these books more obvious is if he had a disclaimer on the back that said, “All these characters represent how I feel about myself. I need hugs now.” Someone hugs his brains out so he quits writing. He’s like gritty Dashboard in a book form.
I put the book down. I look around the house. It might be only 6:30 pm, but suddenly sleep is the only answer. Good night folks. I sleep on into the mist.