We grew up with storybook tales of happily ever after and disney characters destined for one another. As kids we had our crushes, dreams of first kisses, mommies and daddies that loved each other endlessly, and for those of us that tend to get a little ahead of ourselves, plans for that fateful day when we would meet that other person, the perfect person we were made for. Little girls yearned for prince charming and little boys wanted nothing more than to SEE SOME BOOBS, AM I RIGHT!?!?! GUY CODE! I'm just kidding ladies, we do actually care about you and your feelings and what you did last saturday and why you are sick of that one girl that always, like, says things that annoys you and stuff. Basically, what I'm trying to get at is we all, at one point, had expectations of what love is supposed to be like.
I am no exception, in fact, I have often proven to be a little over the top when it comes to girls that I've been enamored with. Since I was a kid I've had the expectation that the shining model of what a girl should be like would one day fall into my lap and we would ride off into the sunset together. More times than not I am bitterly dissapointed due to my own high standards and eccentricities. You see, when I decide that a girl is up to my liking I immediately cease to act like a normal human being and make a complete fool of myself. I invest my entire being into making sure that my potential soul mate knows I'm fucking insane and refuses to speak to me ever again. However, there are times, despite my character flaws, that the person I am secretly gawking at shares a mutual attraction. In these instances I can most times overcome my awkward, but genuine, attempts at being a respectable, socially inclined person and resume being myself. A romantic relationship ensues and for the time I am happy, the world is my oyster.
Romantic relationships in my young life are like bad sex, its good for thirty seconds then its over and I'm left wondering what happened. In spite of the fact that I am a guy and guys are supposed to be emotionless, tough, womanizing brutes, for some reason I wasnt programmed that way, therefore, more times than not when a relationship of mine ends I am left devastated. The ending of a relationship hurts no matter the circumstance or the "love" that was once there, but I am here to tell you something that will undoubtedly make you hate the concept of love even more, whoopee!
So........ there was this guy, dudes name was Arthur, Arthur Schopenhauer, and arthur was a german philosopher in the early 1800's. Schopenhauer in the eyes of women would have been percieved as confident, good looking, intelligent, and financially well off, however, successful relationships always alluded him. This fact was more than likely due to his philosophy on mankind's obssession with the idea of love. Schopenhauer was convinced that love was nothing more than an extremely intricate trick played on humanity by biology in order to ensure the continuation of mankind as a species. Since I have mentioned the notion that love is nothing more than a trick to get us to do the dirty most of you probably have responded by wanting to burn me at the stake for blasphemy but allow me to explain Schopenhauer's reasoning.
Mr. Schopenhauer believes in the "will to live theory." This theory suggest that when a person experiences "love" subconciously that person has made the decision that the target of his/her affection is an appropriate candidate for babymaking based upon that person's qualities. For example, almost everyone tries to retain the fallacy that they do not base relationships upon attraction alone. This, however, is a complete lie. Attraction, although does pertain to physical attraction, is much more than that. Attraction is the accumulation of a person in another suiter's eyes based upon one may say, "the whole package." The reason someone may be attracted to one person and not another is because, subconciously, that person is summing up the other's ability to produce happy, healthy children. Essentially, love, although a very real emotion, is something created by nature in order to ensure that we propagate. That is why so often we hear about families being upended due to divorce. Once children have been created the partners often times notice that the same fire that was once present in their relationship is no longer there. The love was merely a dillusion and now the two have children to raise together.
My intention with this post was not to be morbid or cast an ill mood, rather, to help those struggling with relationships, crushes, or ending marriages. It is alright to build your life around love, nothing in life is quite as important. Where we go wrong, however, is in assuming that love results in happiness, which is far from the truth. I will leave you with some quotes from Arthur Schopenhauer himself:
"Almost all of our sorrows spring out of our relations with other people."
"To live alone is the fate of all great souls."
"If God made this world I would not like to be the god, it's misery and distress would break my heart"
"Men are by nature merely indifferent to one another; but women are by nature enemies."
"It is a clear gain to sacrifice pleasure in order to avoid pain."
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Soccer, my first love.
At the age of four I encountered my first love, I had just been enrolled in the local soccer club. I needed something, an outlet you could say, in order to ensure the sanity of my parents and keep me out of the pre-k juvenile detention center miles from our home in Topeka, Kansas. Needless to say, my life would never quite be the same.....
I managed to be trouble even before making my grand exit from the womb, which may explain the reason I am the way I am to this day. I was a c-section, predictable, given my mom's small frame. My dad, bless him, must think he is a reincarnation of the late-great Richard Pryor despite being an Irish Catholic son of six with the comedic prowess you'd expect from someone who has been working in the civil engineering business for years, explaining my problematic birth as such: "His head was so big that we couldnt get him out, he's SHAWTY BIG-HEAD." Needless to say my family keeps him chained in his office where he is seldom allowed out due to social inadequacy. I'd like to imagine my infantile-self as one of uncanny intellect and prowess for the philosophy of the womb, pondering endlessly the enigmatic truths of prenatal life. Most likely, at the time of my suspected birth I was pouring over some truth of the womb and was upset by the unruly disturbance that was my mother in labor, thus, refusing to dislodge myself from my warm, quiet sanctuary. I was removed from my mother screaming and didnt stop, I was a collic baby.
Time went on, and with it my collic eventually evolved into what I'd like to call an insatiable lust for life. As a toddler I was extremely opinionated for my age. I'd attempt to have an intelligent conversation with some of my young colleagues on the playground and all I would get in return was frothy toddler babble one would expect from a child of two. Frustration over my inability to communicate with these babboons dripping with spittle is what first drove me into my drug addiction. I'd escape this ruthless reality if only for a few moments through one of my mother's glorious breasts.
I spiralled, always looking for my next fix. I recall one particular instance where I succumbed to forcing myself on a mother of an acquintance due to my own mothers adamant refusal. This particular episode landed me in time out, I knew it was only a matter of time. For an entire twenty minutes I was confined to a particularly solitary corner in my house drifting in and out of consciousness, made sublime by the foreign mother's milk. It is in that barren state that I first acquainted myself with the poems of Robert Frost. High, barely concious, and wasting away god spoke to me through Frost's "The Road not taken." While in the depths of hell itself I resolved to change my ways, for I would be three soon, my mouth, already almost full of teeth........it was time to grow up.
Successfully, I remained sober only relapsing in my dreams, and yet, I was more lost than ever before. My young mind was frought with questions as to what this existance held for me. "What is my purpose, why am I here, what is that angry porcelain beast and why does my mother insist I defecate into its growling mouth?" My third birthday proved to be the beginning of a particularly difficult year, starting immediately with my birthday party. All was well and a good time was had by all in the first few hours spent in celebration of my life. Then, inevitably, it was time for my relatives and fair-minded friends to bestow me with gifts, which admittedly, I was quite excited for. My parents, at my request, pulled together what meager supply of money we had and gave me a complete collection of Shakespeare's works which was accepted with an immense amount of gratitude and a single tear. It continued like this, my receiving presents, without incident until it was my Grammy's turn to present. I ravenously tore at the wrapping paper, my grammy smiling expectantly. At first I was confused. "What is this....thing.......this alien artifact standing on two rather bowed legs with little front arms that did not match its body?" It looked rather reptilian, but unlike any reptile I had ever seen before and it was clear that this inanimate object was a model of something quite larger than itself. Then, quite suddenly, it sprang to life! With eyes that now glowed yellow it looked at me as if it could see through the depths of my soul and began to waddle toward me, letting loose a bloodcurrtling roar. I would have relentless nightmares for years.
I'm assuming my beautiful, loving mother needed a break from her odd little child whom attracted trouble, and it was she who introduced me to my love. At first I was quite opposed to the idea of playing an organized sport, it seemed barbaric. The concept of running endlessly with a "team" of giggling idiots for the amusement of their equally dimwitted spawn machines was not, originally, an apealing notion. Reluctantly, I took to the field looking ridiculous in my over-sized uniform and genital hugging shorts. I expected the normal American concept of a coach; An oversized, balding man with a history of alcoholism, but what I got was quite the opposite. My coach, my angel, with hair like a sandy beach, a voice that tickled the pit of my stomach, and eyes deeper than the Mariana Trench, greeted me on the field. I would do anything to please her. I practiced like a wild fiend under her watchful eyes, and would practice more while at home with thoughts of her praise guiding me.... but something along the way changed within me. After a time I no longer lead drills, ran wildly, or scored goals for her pleasure, but instead, for mine. While on the field I was cut off from the endless array of thoughts that plagued every moment of my existance, while on the field I was someone entirely different. I felt like an incandescant version of myself, caught in a parallel universe of pure competition. I loved the feeling of victory and loathed defeat. I had found my sanctuary, my salvation.
I managed to be trouble even before making my grand exit from the womb, which may explain the reason I am the way I am to this day. I was a c-section, predictable, given my mom's small frame. My dad, bless him, must think he is a reincarnation of the late-great Richard Pryor despite being an Irish Catholic son of six with the comedic prowess you'd expect from someone who has been working in the civil engineering business for years, explaining my problematic birth as such: "His head was so big that we couldnt get him out, he's SHAWTY BIG-HEAD." Needless to say my family keeps him chained in his office where he is seldom allowed out due to social inadequacy. I'd like to imagine my infantile-self as one of uncanny intellect and prowess for the philosophy of the womb, pondering endlessly the enigmatic truths of prenatal life. Most likely, at the time of my suspected birth I was pouring over some truth of the womb and was upset by the unruly disturbance that was my mother in labor, thus, refusing to dislodge myself from my warm, quiet sanctuary. I was removed from my mother screaming and didnt stop, I was a collic baby.
Time went on, and with it my collic eventually evolved into what I'd like to call an insatiable lust for life. As a toddler I was extremely opinionated for my age. I'd attempt to have an intelligent conversation with some of my young colleagues on the playground and all I would get in return was frothy toddler babble one would expect from a child of two. Frustration over my inability to communicate with these babboons dripping with spittle is what first drove me into my drug addiction. I'd escape this ruthless reality if only for a few moments through one of my mother's glorious breasts.
I spiralled, always looking for my next fix. I recall one particular instance where I succumbed to forcing myself on a mother of an acquintance due to my own mothers adamant refusal. This particular episode landed me in time out, I knew it was only a matter of time. For an entire twenty minutes I was confined to a particularly solitary corner in my house drifting in and out of consciousness, made sublime by the foreign mother's milk. It is in that barren state that I first acquainted myself with the poems of Robert Frost. High, barely concious, and wasting away god spoke to me through Frost's "The Road not taken." While in the depths of hell itself I resolved to change my ways, for I would be three soon, my mouth, already almost full of teeth........it was time to grow up.
Successfully, I remained sober only relapsing in my dreams, and yet, I was more lost than ever before. My young mind was frought with questions as to what this existance held for me. "What is my purpose, why am I here, what is that angry porcelain beast and why does my mother insist I defecate into its growling mouth?" My third birthday proved to be the beginning of a particularly difficult year, starting immediately with my birthday party. All was well and a good time was had by all in the first few hours spent in celebration of my life. Then, inevitably, it was time for my relatives and fair-minded friends to bestow me with gifts, which admittedly, I was quite excited for. My parents, at my request, pulled together what meager supply of money we had and gave me a complete collection of Shakespeare's works which was accepted with an immense amount of gratitude and a single tear. It continued like this, my receiving presents, without incident until it was my Grammy's turn to present. I ravenously tore at the wrapping paper, my grammy smiling expectantly. At first I was confused. "What is this....thing.......this alien artifact standing on two rather bowed legs with little front arms that did not match its body?" It looked rather reptilian, but unlike any reptile I had ever seen before and it was clear that this inanimate object was a model of something quite larger than itself. Then, quite suddenly, it sprang to life! With eyes that now glowed yellow it looked at me as if it could see through the depths of my soul and began to waddle toward me, letting loose a bloodcurrtling roar. I would have relentless nightmares for years.
I'm assuming my beautiful, loving mother needed a break from her odd little child whom attracted trouble, and it was she who introduced me to my love. At first I was quite opposed to the idea of playing an organized sport, it seemed barbaric. The concept of running endlessly with a "team" of giggling idiots for the amusement of their equally dimwitted spawn machines was not, originally, an apealing notion. Reluctantly, I took to the field looking ridiculous in my over-sized uniform and genital hugging shorts. I expected the normal American concept of a coach; An oversized, balding man with a history of alcoholism, but what I got was quite the opposite. My coach, my angel, with hair like a sandy beach, a voice that tickled the pit of my stomach, and eyes deeper than the Mariana Trench, greeted me on the field. I would do anything to please her. I practiced like a wild fiend under her watchful eyes, and would practice more while at home with thoughts of her praise guiding me.... but something along the way changed within me. After a time I no longer lead drills, ran wildly, or scored goals for her pleasure, but instead, for mine. While on the field I was cut off from the endless array of thoughts that plagued every moment of my existance, while on the field I was someone entirely different. I felt like an incandescant version of myself, caught in a parallel universe of pure competition. I loved the feeling of victory and loathed defeat. I had found my sanctuary, my salvation.
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