Monday, February 7, 2011

re: the perfect girlfriend

***Someone had written a joke personals ad on craigslist of nihilist brilliance.  Regretfully, I didn't copy it.  Anyways, this is my wanna-be joke reply.*** 

C'mon!!!  Yeah, I should whine only when I'm married.

I'll be honest with ya, honest up to a certain point.  Don't give me this bullshit 'bout you being some "artist" and that you're so deep 'n' tortured.  Artists should be deep 'n' tortured not because of some commodified romantic notions but because they're utter sellouts in the end.  Even if you're a poete maudit, a historical improbability in our times in my humble opinion, you may as well screw Vincent Gallo for his desperate posturing.  Avant-garde my ass, whatever that means anymore.  Renato Poggioli analyzed many years ago that the avant-garde passes into fashion, that is, into capitalization; same thing as the spectacle a la Guy Debord.  Tortured artist one day, fashionable darling the next.  I'll read about you in some pretty art book...although they rarely make really beautiful art books.  Only some tacky or bourgsy or tacky bourgsy wanna-bes or ultimately trendy teenagers would actually fall for the adventure and romance of a tortured artist. Ya might as well imagine yourself falling in love with a vampire.  It's obvious that this comes from a not-so-special ennui and lack, from a personal and systemic and historical fatigue.  It bubbles from a certain would-be elitism more than from being genuinely distraught.  But almost all of these fuckers haven't even read Lautreamont, let alone Emil Cioran.  It's better to screw some hipster dumbass than to brainwash and stereotype yourself.  And so passe.  Try to be fuckin' objective!  Yeah, perhaps you do feel some Weltschmerz, it's real.  What can I do about it?!?  Fuck, I really don't know shit 'bout how things are, and I'm a mess.  I shouldn't have injested that other sugarcube of liquid acid at that party which gave me the worst bad trip because I thought all those gangstas then everyone in the world wanted to kick my ass, which led to a schizophrenic breakdown, and fuckin' several months in psych lockup.  The first thing I did outta the bin was hit some speedball 'cause I thought it'll be a nice treat.  I'm still trying to pick up the pieces.  But that's beside the point.  I'm just unoriginal like you.  Sylvia Plath is so cliche, it's almost funny.  At least have something offbeat like Virginia Wolff.  Or read something of crystalline strength like Kathy Acker or Valerie Solanas, even some poststructuralist or Lacanian crap to make you brilliantly sexy.  But I didn't mean that, that is, about you being cliche 'n' unoriginal.  I can be so fuckin' pedantic and so fuckin' petty, and so disgustingly pretentious.  I'm only good at nerdo asides.  I don't wanna hurt you.  Perhaps the best way to reassure you that things will be ok is to say that you have an edge over others, that you have this self-loathing which at least implicitly calls into question your ek-sistence, and maybe looks upon the void. Fuck, I'll buy you a bottle.  Maybe that's just how you are.  I think you're a smart and articulate person.  I hope you don't think I'm using the same lame tactic, conscious or subconscious, that all guys use which is to have a mini-tantrum then try to avoid any consequences with sweet nothings.  How fuckin' sensitive and endearing. Fuckin' users anyways.  Most people don't even have the slightest clue about the real tragedy and absurdity of life. They may feel it, but they delude themselves with hopes 'n' dreams 'n' misled desires, that sorta shit.  Happiness is overrated.  Yeah, tell me something I don't know already.  Anyways...  Most artists are such measly-minded happy go-getters they may as well be stock brokers.  And they mostly produce a bunch of junk that's rationalized as something beautiful or compelling - it's downright appalling.  The tortured artist bit may be even more reprehensible.  It's a way of selling yourself, at least an image of yourself.  Just as geared toward being employable somehow as an oblivious yuppie.  Everything for and to the marketplace.  Fuckin' tacky.  All this isn't tragedy, it's general folly. It doesn't have the merit of absurdity because it seems so damn calculated, which might top absurdity. The real tragedy may be more mediocre.  The trick is to withstand the mediocre depression and anxiety day in day out, which is the real shit.  And to withdraw from most of the affairs of the world, although drama's irresistable ain't it? because delusions fill the otherwise stupid emptiness of life.

Well, I hate to cut this off, but I wanna smoke.