Saturday, 4 September 2010

Ode to self

There have been times in my life when I really don't understand what the point is. You see I know I'm an arsehole, if I was someone else I wouldn't be friends with me. There are many things I enjoy doing, but I can no longer do them. I suffer from almost crippling loneliness, yet I don't particularly like other people. People annoy me, especially people I actually like. So to save the friendship, I disappear for a while. I ration out my time with those I want in my life. But I get comfortable being alone. I enjoy the solitude, the raging silence in my head.

What is it that makes us need company? Why are we so dependant on social contact?

I have a theory, so brace yourselves.
Whatever we think of ourselves is almost always wrong. Think you're fat? probably wrong. Think you're intelligent? Almost certainly wrong. So we need other people's opinions to tell us who and what we are. Sure there are going to be times when they bend the truth to save our feelings "no of course you don't look fat in that dress honey!" is a classic, but if enough people are telling you the same thing...well it's probably true, no matter what you think.

Which brings up a rather interesting question. Why can we be more honest about other people than we can about ourselves? OK, so no-one wants to think of themselves as a fat arsehole with a tiny I.Q. but surely acknowledging your faults is the first step to fixing them?

What do you do when you can't fix the faults? When you like them, when you like being an arsehole? What do you do when people keep wanting to be your friend, or worse, and all you want to do is tell them to fuck off? Answers on a postcard.

I suppose this rant was started by someone trying to be nice and said I'd make a good husband for someone one day. No, no I won't. I don't even make a good human being at times. I'm an arsehole, I'm broken, but I like it that way. It's far more interesting.

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