All life is a series of putting forward shite theories, including this one, which lie in various stages of shite development. This one came to fruition, coincidentally, while sitting on the bowl but bear with me. I recommend you take what I’m about to tell you with a pinch of shite, but also to go away reflect pensively on a world of shittiness.
A case in point: On the television this morning there were four people on the BBC breakfast programme. Two were the presenters who worked like diligent scientists in politely extracting the shite from their two guests who sat, predictably, on opposite sides of the shite spectrum. One believed that shite was a positive thing and thus was an instrumental part of life that existed in many different forms. Both creamy and turgid. Whereas the other took a negative view, saying that not only was shite non-existent, but was rather a propaganda piece from the government who sought to erect a shite smokescreen to detract from their failed, shitty economic policies.
The presenters, at pains to remain objective, inadvertently stirred further the cauldron of shite that was their debate; and as humans inevitably couldn’t refrain from holding back even smidgeons of their own shite opinions. ‘But don’t you think…’ was a common deflective phrase, which ostensibly gave rise to devil’s advocate, but in reality represented what the common man, a person who shites regularly, might think as the viewer.
Eventually after their frenzy of shite, where shite was batted back and forth like a tennis rally, the presenters through their skill and experience came to a shitty compromise which left you, the audience, to either accept the shite which was just spewed, or brew your own shite based on a combination of other, eclectic shittiness. `
When I teach my son, I seek to pass on the baton of shite like the Olympic torch so that he can develop out of what is admittedly a simplistic view of shite. Despite my efforts, I imagine as he develops into a teenager he will do an angst-ridden shite while contemplating his shitty, pointless existence. I will direct him towards people like Nietschze and Stephen King who are prolific shitters, but he will still be confused about shite—like we all were at one point as pesky teenagers, right? Right? You know that persistent feeling as though he just fell into a slurry tank and were swiftly approaching a death due to a mixture of the poisonous, shitty gasses and lack of shit-free oxygen? Of course you do.
As an adult he will go to his job and live, breath and talk shite to his fellow peers who will thus reciprocate their own peculiar shite in the form of talking about the weather (Which predicts a shitty couple of days), the shite football match which was played at the weekend, and the shitty state of politics. For now though I want him to block out the cacophony of shite until he is better equipped to deal with the shite onslaught; so this weekend I will take him to the cinema to see a film about shite which I will, I expect, decide is shittier than the last shite film that I took my son to see.
If you disagree, feel free to impart your own shitty theory which I’m sure will amuse me
(By the way my son, who is non-existent, is a convenient purveyor of my ideas)
I hand over my ticket to the bus driver, walking down the claustrophobic aisle that’s lined by old pensioners with shopping bags. As I approach the back, I see someone who I recognise so I wave and he acknowledges me.
‘How’s it goin?’ I ask him.
‘Not too bad’ he says, ‘What’s the craic?’
Sitting down beside him we start talking—the usual jovial rigmarole about our plans for the day, where we were going and why. Normally this wouldn’t cause me a second thought, except that, as I looked closer to this person who I thought I knew, he turned out to be a total stranger. Damn short-sightedness, I’ll be blind by the time I’m 50.
The resemblance to this person who I knew was uncanny; from far away I’d have bet my house it was him. He had the same chubby frame, shape of head and hairstyle; only on closer inspection this man was, although fat, taller by quite a bit and he had subtle differences in his teeth in that there were a lot more spaces between them.
The first thing that struck me was the voice. I thought, ‘hold on a second’, that doesn’t sound like him. And this guy dribbled his words to the extent that I couldn’t understand a single word he said. A couple of times I just nodded and smiled and pretended to hear him. He might have been semi-retarded, actually. It was after a couple of minutes that I think we both telepathically realised that we didn’t, in fact, know each other. And to minimise the awkwardness I began shuffling for a book in my bag at the earliest possible opportunity so I could stop speaking to him. Although we both knew, we both didn’t mention it.
As the bus drives away I’m smirking to myself. And now on the journey in a silly kind of way I’m writing about the experience. A bit pointless, perhaps, but kinda funny all the same.
Things are looking up in my life it seems as I'm going back to University in February to finish my law degree, and I have a gentlemans agreemant (of sorts) with my employer to work up until Christmas. So chuffed
In a way it was good to dislodge my arse from the lazy seat and get up and do something. Much of the summer was spent lying around and writing, and thinking about life, and about where I was going, and I suppose that had its benefits as well as its downsides. After all, there's only so much you can philosophise about your social awkwardness/quirkiness before you start getting depressed, and actually compounding the annoying traits you see in yourself.
I was going, and still am (sort of) going through a phase of drinking lots of alcohol and taking drugs and just generally being a bit mad for a while, so that it's easy to lose sight of things. But some mornings I'd be lying in my bed thinking about every possible outcome my activities might precipitate, and I always feel as if I'm in control. When I get dragged into a moral debate with my sister's fiancee about drugs and he tells me I'm going to end up like something out of trainspotting, I feel like gripping him and telling him I know what I'm doing.
I have this inner confidence that I'll make something of myself, but sometimes I just wish others would feel the sheer force of this self-assurance that lies deep within me, despite the apparent shakiness on the surface.
You're moaning about me moaning and then I moan about you moaning. I’m gossiping about you and you’re gossiping about me. That’s the way the local world works. Let’s go on Facebook and see what others are doing.
I wake up every day and say the same things. See the same things. Use the same words. There’s only so much that you and I are capable of. You can’t use words that you don’t know so you stick to what you do know. And what do I know? Nothing out of the ordinary. Like a thief of words, if you know something I don’t, I might just steal from you and call it my own. You can do the same. I can use my own acumen and my own reading of people but that can only get me so far. That can only get YOU so far. So we both steal from each other and the end result is that we’re both clones of each other- we know and do the same things.
But you like to think you’re an individual, right? Of course you do. Every person likes to think that they’re one better than the next. So do I. But you can never know you’re ‘better’ until it’s validated by someone who’s in a position to validate. Is it God? Or a critic? Or your family? All peers.
Or maybe you don’t question at all. Maybe thoughts don’t enter your head whatsoever, except for what’s in the here and now, the tangible things that affect your day to day life. What did you have for dinner today? Tell people. Don’t think about anything bigger because you’ll end up like me- Talking in loops using the same words and never really coming to any conclusions. What bothers me will probably not bother you. It probably won’t even occupy your attention. Because I think about things that aren’t worth thinking about and what this produces is gibberish. All I write is gibberish.
It’s like I’m a misanthropic old man at a young age. I sincerely hope the older I get, things won’t become any more tedious than what they already are. If the routines that I already play out perpetuate themselves for years on end, and become the whole of my life, I’m not sure how long I’ll last. That’s the essence of wasted potential. When it dawns on a person that they could have done this or that but ended up doing nothing- Someone who just drifted and drifted, forever passive, and never caring, about himself or others- Just a vacuous vehicle that’s been gutted but is still somehow able to move.
But one day that vehicle might just die out, inexplicably, and it’ll be beyond repair, ready for the scrap yard. And people won’t even know. It’ll be on the back end of a truck silently moving along until it reaches its destination, where it’ll then be crushed, at which point it becomes another piece of metal, and not the model of car that it once was. I don’t know, where does it go then? Underground, making friends with the muck and dust? New cars are made, better ones, and people forget about the old model. It’s buried underground.
I’m like that old man on the local news talking about how the country’s gone to shit. But he speaks too gruffly and no one can understand him. Not that he would be listened to anyway. But there’s plenty of old men that have lived who’ve never been listened to, and me and that old man and many like him are not short of company, because all anyone ever wants to do is hear themselves talk. Then it’s ironic that you talk to yourself, endlessly, about how no one ever listens to you, compensating for the lack of voices that never heard you talking.
Those people that others do stand up and listen to, they’ve been talking and talking without anyone listening for years, until they say something that resonates, that makes sense, that’s in fitting with certain trends. I’d say something that captures the imagination but I can’t. They’re the lucky ones.
I’m just a bitter young person who wants to be listened to because I think that what I’ve got to say is full of wisdom when it’s not. I could say the same about you. You and I are the same person. It doesn’t matter if I use ‘I’ or ‘you’ in the statements that I make because we’re no different. The point is that the majority of us share banal, common traits. We do what is ‘normal’ because this is what the mainstream does and we want to be seen as like others.
You can’t help but notice this through Facebook.
Almost everything is about ‘Going out’, buying a ticket to some concert, having a wonderful day with all the great friends you have. In general, ‘Here, look, my life is more interesting than yours’. It’s all so FAKE. I go out with my friends, like anyone, but I don’t preach about it and exaggerate it so that it looks so much better than what it is. It’s the same with photos. People put up certain photos as their profile pic because this is the photo that they feel best represents them, or how they would like to see themselves represented. I do it myself without even realising. A photo caught at an angle that hides some flaws you don’t want people to see, but one which accentuates a nice quality that you do have. A close up of the eyes, of your hair, of your smile. You get the point…
Sometimes it’s hard to differentiate people from others because they’re so similar. It’s almost like people are sheep. They say things gauged on what they think they should be saying, or say something tempered by the reaction they think it will get. Myself and my friends are similar. I guess people just fall into categories and there’s nothing else to it. There’s social conditioning all over the place. I’m getting exasperated just thinking about it.
You can achieve the façade of being ‘different’ quite easily through the Facebook medium. You have ample time to think about your responses to people’s questions, so you’re assured of what sounds humorous and quick-witted even when it’s not. You can be random, sarcastic and simply just look like you’re care-free when, in reality, that’s far from the case. It’s a manufactured image. That’s all it is, and it’s most likely not who you really are.
So you might think I’m an enemy of Facebook? I’m not. I go on it all the time.
I’m like everybody else.
I’m a bit Kurt Kobain in the brain
No you’re not
Making bids for squids
I like squid
Swimming in the consumption of alcohol
You big emo, you
Always setting the tone in losing my back bone
Where did you lose it?
Like an invertebrate
But not really
I need to be doused in Dutch courage
Ending the night in a flourish
Even though you’re depressed?
A flurry of punches in a skirmish?
You couldn’t beat snow off a rope
Waking up the next day I’m determined not to squirm
But you squirm anyway?
But my face turns red in a flush of embarrassment
That sounds more like you
I’m abhorred by my behaviour the night before
Well you fucking should be, you muppet
But I move on to the next night
And it’ll be all right.
I love clichés too
The key is to learn
And not to repeat
Your previous disgraceful feats
Anymore in the locker?
You worry your just destined
To repeat the process
Keep ‘em comin’
But in a drunken haze you’ve got other priorities
Emo, comin’ through
I might be oblivious to
Seeing the bigger picture
You disgust me
I’ll never be a bum living in the slums
But you’ll be a bum writing on Microsoft word?
Am I disparagingly arrogant?
Nothin’ to be arrogant about, mate
Fuck the melancholy, I’m jolly, check the melody.
But there’s no melody. This isn’t a song?
Upliftin’, it’s siftin’ through my pores
That’s because you don’t wash, you greasy bastard
George Doors what’s the scores?
I don’t know I never watched Shooting Stars
What’s the story Balamory? Don’t bore me
Your tedious rhymes are boring me
Get wasted and pasted, whore the floor
Your mum’s a whore
I’m over hungover, red rover give me a clover
What about a bulldozer?
Let’s wreck this place
Would you be so kind, I’m blind, I can’t find my face
Look in the mirror
Give space for the disgrace, ‘till he finds his face
You are a disgrace
(And so are your rhymes)
Will you take a chance with romance?
What’s with all the questions?
But will you?
I don’t know I’m not a queer.
Would you fuck off with your negativity?
Would you fuck off with your positivity?
Let’s just agree to disagree
You’re the nihilist, I’m the optimist
Does that make us polar opposites?
Aye, but opposites attract?
Fuck you, I’m not attracted to you
Okay then, you’re the homophobe, I’m the liberal
What were we talking about again?
I dunno, I forget
Well that’s not much good, I’m on a stream of consciousness here, help me out
Do your own thinking you lazy bastard
If I’m boozin’ am I losing?
We’re back on track
Society just demands of me
Society wants you to kill yourself
I go a way that they say
No one said anything, it’s all in your head
There’s no choice, just one path
What the hell are you talking about?
I am bleeding, emotionally
just follow me
To the mental hospital!
Live life to the full, you’ll never be dull
It’s so dark in here
A surplus of stories to impress your mates
Just make them up
Have success on dates, a sexual C.V that reads like Bill Gates mates
You’re still a virgin
No I’m not , what about that prostitute?
Nevermind…continue with your lyricism…
I'm not going to, just because you told me to
You really are disturbed
No, YOU'RE disturbed
Where's my medication, Nurse Ratched?
Nurse Ratched's not here to help you, MUHAHAHA
Jack! Don't let go jack!
Dawson or Nicholson?
I don't know
Does it matter?
Separate names with a comma.