A Dimpled Spider, Fat and White

All things to all people, I occupy some place between sex-centric and tasting of spinster, having all the mediocrity and none of the stability the middle ground usually affords. As an aside, the voiceless masses seem to have found a need to make heard a comment. I cannot help but wonder if it is friend or stranger or perhaps a bit of both. Either way, I’ll keep the preference of boys in mind next time a rat piddles on my pant leg.

It strikes me that like the urban legends that cut the pockets out from their pants to allow for convenient public masturbation, there is continual returning to the topic of the ignominy our human life spans, because oh it just feels so good. Do me, do me now; hot throbbing nihilistic sentiment: penetrate me, complicate me, feel me from the inside.

Kind of makes me wonder about my better half. If I might engage in the theft of a Vonnegut phrase: like a Jew, trying to make it through life with half a Bible, does it behoove me to create, educated and consult an additional half, bringing me to a full 3/2?

Of course not, something is fishy with that math.

So where to go from here?

I could write about the cruelty that we show to our fellow human beings despite the fact we all end up erect and shit smeared at the end of all our lives. Will I then stand accused of a bleeding heart?

There’s nothing sadder then the blind man with a broken cane begging for change.

There’s nothing sadder then the old man in a wheel chair being patted down for his prescription weed.

I could write about the joy we give to our fellow man, despite the fact that sometimes before ending up stiff and incontinent, we can be real assholes. But I think you’re on your own for that, since I find that rarely am I touched by the kindness that we might show within our little cycle, from Huggies to Depends.

The only kindness that might warm the cockles of my heart is kindness towards the things that exist outside our cycling of eat, sleep, piss, shit. The kindness towards the alien that is so infrequent that it may in fact be just a myth, told to us early on so that we might continue to eat, sleep, piss and shit in contentedness.

But even with kindness comes a price. It seems to follow that we do the most for the ones we love, but what if we cannot love the ones we do the most for? It seems that the act of kindness requires a certain amount of pity. Those worse off then us are invariably the ones who are recipients of our kind acts. What better example then the stories of beggars on the streets of Calcutta who sever and deform in order to turn a greater profit? Perhaps they are just stories, I would not be in a position to know, but certainly they hold the truth that is at the crux of the matter. So if pity is required, can we love those we pity?

I apologize for what may seem like scolding. I know that preaching blogs are hardly ever of interest, especially to the relatively affluent portion of the population that reads blogs. Small comfort perhaps but let me promise you that I count myself among the seething mass of humanity that I digress upon.

Tune in next week for more frivolity.