They tell me part of being a grownup is eventually settling down, becoming less boisterous, less bomabstic. Actually, only one person has ever explicitly told me that, but the sheer numberof times I've been deserted mid-
sentence certainly seems to validate the hypothesis that this is what most of you assholes are thinking. Well, I've got something to say to that particular philosophy: fuck that. Fuck the shit out of it. Like, seriously, don't stop until it has eight, nine, ten rip-roaring, lung buster orgasms and is in agony from the chafe of it all.
Because, really, the world works on loud, not reason, nor novelty, morality, good sense or fashion, basically just LOUD. You probably don't have a sense of how true this is because you are dumb and I am smart. See, though: IF I WRITE THIS IN CAPITAL LETTERS, YOU WILL ASSUME IT'S IMPORTANT. Don't get sick with worry, you haven't missed out on the secret salient point of why, because it isn't. How could it be when both the person writing and the person reading it aren't?
I know, I just called you stupid and unimportant, but don't get angry. I actually love you little meat robots and it's not like it's your fault you don't understand how important the little "11" tick on your personal volume knob is. Consider where you are: the vile guts of the academic institution, where students are put on "mute," bullshit flows like...uh, shit...and everyone is conditioned to walk around with their heads so far up their asses they can lick their throats and allow themselves to toil under the remarkably inane delusion that they matter or one day might.
And in that delightfully colonic paragraph lies the rub, one which I will now endeavour to rub out into this paragraph, which is shaping up to be masturbation themed. Academia: if you're going to jerk off so goddamned much, I'm going to stop allowing myself to be the resultant jar of cum in your refridgerator marked "for propriety's sake." Sheath your throbbing pork swords and listen up for a second: nothing you say actually matters. It's funny, because despite continuing to make new circle-jerk stains on a crusty, yellowed glamour-shot of Descartes, you don't seem to realize that's what he was talking about. Four hundred years ago.
My whole dazed and angry trip through higher learning has essentially been spent quietly listening to people who figured out how to YELL STUPIDLY LOUD IN A NON-OBVIOUS WAY and-here's the fucking clincher-feeling superior because of it. But I am not. I am a pullstring doll who can render uninteresting points about photons and dialectic materialism even less interesting with obfuscatory language. I am a hypocrite, a silent voice foisted on the loud, by the loud. I am pointless.
That wasn't an invitation to mourn me. I know, you weren't, but please promise me you won't decide it's a good idea to start. Instead, start ignoring your professors. Start running around naked and yelling. Make Dadaist art and write unintelligable graffitti in bathroom stalls, punch whoever you want and download all the gay porn on the Internet. Just don't forget to be a person in the midst of the screams telling you not to be. As for me-and maybe you picked up on some subtle, indicative hints-I am going to practice saying my stupid, pointless shit as loudly as technology will allow me. Thank you, the Gauntlet.