ranierean
Virgil Texas of Chapo Trap House 🚬🚂🐇🦦✊
- Joined
- Jul 1, 2023
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What I have to say runs contra to what I usually feel, but…
In some funny cartesian, solipsistic sense, I’m still the same person that I was at 9-14-21 years old and... it doesn’t matter, I just don’t fucking learn–or more accurately–I couldn’t really add anything upon my farthest, earliest intuitions about the world: it was always “over”.
I can still torture myself with imagining how I could love and be loved, of course, have images of domesticity blip in my mind, but even something this mopey and weak is still too good for me. I’m already “old”, all I do is ramble and reminisce, my body is failing, this world feels… alien to me–both in space and time–and yet… the prevailing mood of it all isn’t despair but amused disappointment, detached irony even–sentimentally breeds on happiness and I have neither–I’m just too pathetic to feel sorry for myself, I can only do that for others.
I desperately wish to be proven wrong, I try, but every attempt just makes it hurt more: it’s all a joke, it’s all a tease–I’m basically banging my head against a wall, thinking, “I don’t actually believe it but it has to crumble at some point, I’m not mature enough to move past the sunk-cost fallacy.”
I’m ugly, yes, but I’m also far beyond anything that most people are mentally. I still cling onto the image of American middle class being on the level of flying Cessnas as a hobby, when of course in today’s reality it’s more about having 2 beater cars max and raping the Amex rewards calculator webpage daily. My world is dead and I wouldn’t want to adapt to anything “new” even if I could. I’m somewhat content with being an outside force, a “traveler” perhaps. An active role in the ennui of society would kill me far quicker than prearranged capitulation to sexless life.
In some funny cartesian, solipsistic sense, I’m still the same person that I was at 9-14-21 years old and... it doesn’t matter, I just don’t fucking learn–or more accurately–I couldn’t really add anything upon my farthest, earliest intuitions about the world: it was always “over”.
I can still torture myself with imagining how I could love and be loved, of course, have images of domesticity blip in my mind, but even something this mopey and weak is still too good for me. I’m already “old”, all I do is ramble and reminisce, my body is failing, this world feels… alien to me–both in space and time–and yet… the prevailing mood of it all isn’t despair but amused disappointment, detached irony even–sentimentally breeds on happiness and I have neither–I’m just too pathetic to feel sorry for myself, I can only do that for others.
I desperately wish to be proven wrong, I try, but every attempt just makes it hurt more: it’s all a joke, it’s all a tease–I’m basically banging my head against a wall, thinking, “I don’t actually believe it but it has to crumble at some point, I’m not mature enough to move past the sunk-cost fallacy.”
I’m ugly, yes, but I’m also far beyond anything that most people are mentally. I still cling onto the image of American middle class being on the level of flying Cessnas as a hobby, when of course in today’s reality it’s more about having 2 beater cars max and raping the Amex rewards calculator webpage daily. My world is dead and I wouldn’t want to adapt to anything “new” even if I could. I’m somewhat content with being an outside force, a “traveler” perhaps. An active role in the ennui of society would kill me far quicker than prearranged capitulation to sexless life.
