Feed us to Death

It’s a sunny Monday and I am tip-tapping away on the keys with these mint green fingernails of mine. Guilt wrenched me this morning, as it always does when I have been drinking the night before. I think more than drinking; it’s when I have smoked a cigarette or something, too. But all that wouldn’t matter so much if I hadn’t woken up alone.
I think that is a universal; if we share our guilty deed with other people, its memory becomes less than that of guilt, but more of ridiculousness, and an acceptable antic. Like if you were flirting with someone and told them your story about being wasted the night before, they’d just flirtingly hit you in the shoulder and say, “Oh, whateveryournameis.” And maybe even giggle.
But here’s the thing, last night all I did was have three vodka cranberries at home, with a new friend, and go out to meet two other new friends. I spent no money at the bar, and I smoked a total of one cigarette. Does guilt make one crazy? Supposedly, though, if one commits a ‘crime’ and does not feel guilty, that’s what implies the person’s insanity. But maybe that would be remorse, not necessarily guilt. What I feel most often in the morning, though, is not remorse. If anything, it’s guilt because I did not do anything to regret, and I maybe should have. This in turn, really just makes me paranoid, and paranoia makes me unable to really enjoy anything, and in turn, this must mean I actually am a bit insane. Apparently the dull kind of insane.

I’m inspired to rant today because I just finished Chuck Klosterman’s book, Killing Yourself to Live. I read it quickly, but was disappointed in the end. It’s a book you want to keep on reading, but not necessarily because it is inspiring, but because your not quite sure if what was supposed to happen, did. The title is witty and too-true, so it made me hold high expectations. His premise is super-interesting, but in the end, he really just takes a road trip by himself (which we all know would be super weird, boring and a bit depressing, spending so much time alone) and talks about the few women he has had sex with. It’s title gives me the same feeling Dave Eggars’ book of short stories did, entitled, How We Are Hungry. Eggars did a better job living up to the title’s prophecy. Both are very similar, and give me reason to believe that the stupid human feelings I have everyday are worth writing about, and may even be seen as important to some people. Hey, it’s all bout connection and feeling the one ness…yes, I have been called new age, and yes, I was insulted by the term, and got into an argument about it. I believe new age people can only live in the 90’s.
Most of us, if we are even slightly interesting, or interested in life, are killing ourselves to live, and this is because we are hungry. We are killing ourselves a bit with alcohol and/or drugs, and/or cigarettes a little bit, if we don’t end up going all the way. Maybe we are even just killing ourselves by working so hard towards some passion we may never conquer. I think these people are the best of us…And I don’t necessarily mean that they do the best or most productive things with their lives and time. It’s just the fact that they have to have some kind of desire; whether trying to reach a goal, or trying to drown out any voice that tells them they could have something to work towards (because it’s easier to do this than try and fail sometimes). This is better than boring, even if the cycle repeats. The passion is our hunger. Passion for greatness, passion for small things, or passion for cigarettes ad booze, is still passion. Love me.