Hector, Happiness, Restlessness, Pigs
Author's Note: I wrote this last night, after months and months of not being able to sit down and write a paragraph I wrote this baby in less than thirty minutes. I know it doesn't make sense, and I'm not even sure what it is at this point. But, I'm proud of it because it felt SO good to be able to write again, and I wanted to share that with all of you. Besides, I think it's rather optimistic...for the most part. Oh, and there's harsh language, so please be aware. ALSO, I'm not hating on the book I mention, even though it seems like I am, I'm hating on the character so please, please, PLEASE don't get offended.
The Backstory (Sort of)
I’m not sure whether it’s because I’m 22, fresh out of college, stuck in the 9 to 5 cycle, or living at home that’s driving me up the wall. Fuck, I just re-read that sentence and it was incredibly depressing. Anyway, I feel like I’m on some sort of drug (or suffering from some sort of chronic illness).Let me explain.Over the last few months, I was on this weird high where I loved everything around me, and if you know anything about me, it’s the fact that I’m never that I’m-so-happy-I-want-to-hug-a-tree kind of person. In fact, I’m quite the opposite. I’m moody, pessimistic, bitchy, sarcastic, and insensitive. So for me to view the glass as half-full was a big deal. It all started with this damn book….
Hector, The Fucked Up Psychologist Who Drugged Me With His Lies
Warning: if you are trying to decide whether you’re reading a self-help book or not, 87.6% of the time, you are. The book was called ‘Hector and his Search for Happiness’. At first, I thought Hector was the best thing that had ever happened to me. I adored Hector and his quirky habits, and his unyielding commitment to all the crazy, convoluted people who stepped into his office. But like almost all of the men in my life, even Hector, a fictional character, failed to hold my interest. Now, I view Hector as a sorry, twisted, psychologist who has more issues than those crazy fucks who regularly sought his advice. His search for happiness wasn’t really a search; it was an excuse to take months off of work and travel around the world to ask people what made them happy. Seriously? That's like going to the doctor and trying to convince him into prescribing you a medicinal marijuana card to soothe those excruciating "headaches". Right....
In the middle of Hector's seemingly serious journey (aka vacation) towards self-discovery, he shagged an escort his good friend paid for (what a useful friend), and fell in love with her. I’d like to take a minute to extend a piece of advice to anyone reading this entry: If you’re sleeping with a stranger and expecting anything serious from that brief sexual encounter, you’re going to be fucked (literally and figuratively) and forgotten like that 90’s boy band: Dreamstreet Does anyone remember them? No. Let me put it this way, Hector had a greater chance of getting a STI from her than evoking any sort of interest after she received her commission, which his friend had conveniently took care of beforehand.
The Why Question We Never Try To Answer
Anyway, back to me. At present, I’m stuck in this weird limbo where I’m neither happy nor sad. I’m a restless mess. I blame Hector. Is it because I subconsciously agree with all of the lessons he tried to teach me? So maybe I secretly envy him? *Gasp* All I know, I'm as empty as a black hole at the moment, devoid of any sort of emotion.
I wish it was it was just that easy. I ask myself the million dollar question..and BAM! (*Insert non-existent Emeril emoticon* ) the answer appears in front of me as clear as a crystal and this existential dilemma ceases to exist. But, that’s not reality. Good old reality, always there to piss on everyone’s parade. The reality is that I may never answer the million-dollar question. I'll keep putting it off, and instead focus on settling into what my monotonous job has to offer. I’ll meander through life being comfortable financially, but end up emotionally unfulfilled and empty. When I’m 60 years old, do I really want to look back at my 20’s and describe them using words like “comfortable” and “calm”? Hell No! This is the time to, for lack of better words, fuck shit up.
Take chances. Drink Unnecessarily (Optional). Make Mistakes. Stumble. Fall. Crawl. Anything.
I’m not trying to be funny, I’m being serious. We (myself included) are so damn afraid to take a chance, because we don’t want to fail. In my opinion, that’s the definition of a paradox, because you have to fail at something to succeed. I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking of that one person you know who’s never failed, at least according to the conventional definition of failure. Let's call this person Glenn. (The conventional definition of failure didn't go to college or flunked out after a semester, spends his days whiling away doing nothing (see:bum), and goes around calling themselves a Belieber. )
Glenn (Yes there are two ns, it wasn't a typo)
Glenn graduated from college with a 4.0, and is now working at some prestigious corporation that offered him a six figure starting salary, and not to mention the 10k signing bonus. (If you know anyone with those credentials I just stated, kindly forward me his contact information, or I’ll give you my contact information and you can forward it to him. His name doesn’t have to be Glenn. I’d prefer a Gaurav….don’t juge me).
In all seriousness, even Glenn has failed at something in his life, and this is not to undermine his hard work, determination, or intelligence, but to remind you not to gauge your personal successes with Glenn’s achievements, or the Glenn's of our society. You can’t expect a pig to fly. In this scenario, you’re the pig and Glenn’s the bird. And there are a lot of pigs in this world, but if all the pigs tried to fly instead of spending their lives striving to be better pigs, what’s the point of their existence? Just like what was the point of this weird example? or Gucci Mane’s ice-cream tattoo. Nothing.
There is a point to this incessant rant. I promise. The point is, or rather the problem is we are so afraid of failing that it’s crippling our creativity. More importantly, it’s making us unhappy and happiness is something we have to create for ourselves. So, in conclusion, if you’re going to take anything away from this unnecessarily long monologue, it’s this: if you’re a pig, work towards being a better pig & If you’re a bird, stop shitting on the pigs.
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