Today was a good day.
I sure am quoting Ice Cube a lot lately. Straight Outta Compton’s been injecting subliminal messages into my head. I go to search some song lyrics on A-Z lyrics and their background is promoting Straight Outta Compton. It’s just everywhere.
Tonight I’m clawing underneath my skin. I’ve awoken from the dead with a little more energy, a lot more anxiety, and an insatiable craving for double fudge chocolate brownies. Mmmm brownies. I feel like I need to jump out my window (i’m ground level, ya’ll), dance on the yellow line in the middle of the street, whip out my bat signal, throw up some jazz hands, stop: hammer time, slap my momma, and then reach a moment of enlightenment. That’s how Buddha did it, you know, I asked him. He’s Mah Boy.
I’m just restless. I went to bed at five am, woke up at seven am, and have been running around ever since. I feel good but I don’t. My energy is fueled by the pent up anxiety I subconsciously slapped a “dunce” cap on and shoved into the dark corner of the classroom in my head. So I inject a full dose of Imagine Dragons and sit back in emotional bliss. Whenever I listen to one of their songs my bones melt into my veins, my inner ear enjoys convulsive orgasms, and the neurotransmitters just sitting in the synapses in my brain (like the lazy fucks they are) unleash their inner interpretive dancer. I have no other way to explain the emotion I feel from this man’s voice. A few songs I’ve heard are unbearably generic but hot damn that February 2015 album Smoke and Mirrors has me transfixed. I feel every emotion and no emotion simultaneously when he powers through a chorus and I’m reminded of what raw talent sounds like.
Everything is so fake around us that it’s a bit of a refresher to hear creative lyrics with meaning behind them and an unbeatable voice bringing them to life. It’s better than “ass, ass, ass, ass, ass, ass” or “I never fucked Wayne, I never fucked Drake” (Like any of us care, you dumb skank) or “blah blah blah blah I broke up with someone” (#TaylorSwift). I’m not trying to be a hater on anyone who likes those artists, but they’re not for me in any way, shape, or form. Reading their lyrics causes temporary blindness in my eyes. I get tired of listening to things about sex, love, and ass. I get those things are pleasurable but what are we all, cheap knock offs of Hedonism Bot from Futurama?
Don’t even get me started on listening to the eleven year old’s walking down the street singing to that stuff on their Iphone 6’s.
Growing up with this anxiety and my perhaps “odd” imagination made me realize there was so much more to life than what people told me. I feel things more intensely than others. It adds substance to this existence. Anxiety is the opposite of sociopathy and if everyone in between thinks they’re the sane ones, they better lift up their arms, take a good, long whiff, and step down off their high horse; we’re all tainted with a scent of insanity. Just deal with it. You’re not normal! Be happy! Fuck, man.
My philosophy professor a few semesters ago suggested we not think about how fragile life really is, so I did the opposite. Think about it. You could die right now. Right before you finish reading this sentence. How weird is that? Blackness. No more Iphones, no more blogs, no more ice cream at one a.m when you know you should be sleeping, no more pets, no more anything. So are you wasting your time worrying about how to have a successful, normal life in the eyes of society or in the eyes of yourself? I’m going to choose myself. I have to die with me and what I do or don’t accomplish. The C.E.O of M.T.V isn’t going to be by my bedside assuring me I did the right in thing in spending my entire paycheck on that one outfit Snookie wore on that episode of Jersey dumbfuck Shore.
Once again, sorry if you liked Jersey Shore, I don’t mean to be offensive. I’m also sorry it existed for you to like.
That’s why I love this song “Dream” so much:
The message is so simple: life isn’t what people make it out to be, this place is a mess, so let me dream. I’ve lived in a fantasy world since my childhood. Inanimate objects contained personalities (e.g. cars had expressions) and they spoke with me in my head. Your eyes probably got wide and your finger probably made circles around your temple in response to that. It’s fine. But when you’re six, seven years old and every day is an anxious nightmare clawing at the walls of your skull, you need an escape. I couldn’t talk to people so I talked to objects. And to this day, I feel more connected with, objects, technology, than I do with peers. It’s not because people are “so judgmental” and objects aren’t, it’s because objects can be whoever I want them to be. An alien. A pope. A ghost. A novel character. Whatever. It’s the endless possibilities that keep me clinging to my fantasies. There are times I bask in my disassociative episodes for that very reason. Existence itself is called into question and I get the pleasure (and often displeasure) of experiencing it.
It’s like feeling reality’s heated, seductive core without ever leaving my room.
Reality as we know it is an irrational comfort for humanity; theoretical physics taught me that. And double fudge brownies taught me that heaven does exist. In the form of baked goods. I shall stuff my face and I shall enjoy it. Fuck your bikini season.