Dharma, Upheaval and Uhaul Trucks

Howdy folks.  It’s been a while.

There’s a very very good reason for that.  And while I don’t want to say too much yet as things aren’t completely finalized, every aspect of my life is in upheaval now.  Good upheaval.  Great upheaval.

What I can say is that I’ve quit my job of eleven years – if my reader(s) hasn’t(haven’t) given up on me, you might recall that I worked in a warehouse – and am in the middle of a move.  And let me just say, the one redeeming feature of poverty is not having much stuff to move.  And it’s not just that moving sucks, but that my back is roughly the same diameter as those little sticks of lead that mechanical pencils use, so this is doubly important.

Seriously, on my last day of work, there was, coincidentally, a pizza party.  It really was a coincidence, as a merger had just gone through that placed the company in far better management, allowing me to leave feeling like the place was going to be okay.  At this party, no less than five people urged me to eat more pizza because I am too skinny.

This is, of course, exactly like urging an overweight person to, hey, lay off the pizza, it’s not like you couldn’t survive for six weeks on your reserves there, buddy.  Yet I still feel the need to defend myself and say that with my metabolism, working in a 110 degree warehouse for eight hours a day, five days a week is in itself one hell of a weight-loss regimen, however involuntary.  I really think that by next summer it would have become a health concern.  Plus, given the nature of this town, everybody probably thinks that I’m on methamphetamine.

I’m not.  I mean, I think we all know I’m not exactly DEA material here, but drugs are one thing and poison is quite another.

At any rate, I plan to return to regular posting once some sort of equilibrium is established.  Other details I can offer:  my car died.  For good this time.  She and I had a good long run, but all things come to an end.  I traded down for a bicycle, which is a pretty radical shift and helpful for cultivating that eco-green-hippie-hipster image that absolutely no one in Texas is so crazy about.  Hopefully that’s how you can know I’m sincere.  I’ve also done volunteer work for the first time.  Lastly, this place we’re moving to on Monday is a sweet one.  I’ll be back out in the country where the term neighbor only applies very loosely.  Not only that, but it’s like living in a Zen retreat; B-Dog knows what I mean, his place has that vibe too, judging from pictures.  Very, very much looking forward to that.

And as I’ve brought up the eco-hippie thing, check this out.  I believe we’re going to go this route once we’re out there.  And sorry to beat that dead horse, but having grown up in the land of Oil and Smoke, it’s a hell of a revelation.

Let me expand on that revelation part of it for a moment, though.  I mean that almost literally; I’m not religious at all, but I’m spiritual as hell, and all this upheaval feels good and right.  It’s a path of a sort, no different from those followed by monks in monasteries.  Every aspect of the transition, including the new job I’m about to start, has simply fallen into place, only requiring me to not be lazy and shiftless and reach out.  As I believe my posting patterns bear out, that’s a problem with me.  Still, I gave ample notice at work, ample notice to the apartment, planned everything out, budgeted the available monies in such a manner to carry it all off without a hitch.  To a normal person it’s business as usual; for me it’s nothing short of glorious triumph.

The universe, and I literally, honestly believe this, made a way for me, and it seemed to me nothing short of blasphemous to shirk the walking.  I know it sounds corny, and perhaps even narcissistic, but think back on your own life when you were pursuing something that you knew at the deepest core of your being was the Right Thing To Do, and see if you can remember the world opening up.  Not so much the things you had power over, but the things that you didn’t.  It’s when the outside forces align with you that you know you’re onto something.  Luck, sort of.  Roughly.

And given the job that I’ve accepted, that all this is for, literally a childhood dream job, it only strengthens my conviction that this is all in accordance with…something.  Will, Tao, Dharma, call it what you will.  It’s there for everyone, and I’m certainly not special in the least that it’s playing out for me, particularly in that what it’s leading me to is ultimately a humble, quiet thing.  The reason it doesn’t make me special because it’s actually inescapable, for all of us, and if life disrobing before you isn’t enough to get you aroused, life can and will progress, sometimes rapidly, to beating you upside the head and in the face in order to get your attention.

Don’t think life is into S&M?  Read up on yogic or otherwise mystic philosophy sometime.  The real stuff, the old school stuff.  Life is kinky as fuck.  They not only actually believe that existence is basically Divine Masturbation, but it kind of makes sense the way they explain it.

That latter (the beating about the head, not the Divine Masturbation, although that’s a beating about the head of another sort) has been how it’s had to play out with me in the past.  Let’s hope it’s different this time, because as essentially my entire life is changing, there’s a lot to lose.  When you’ve quit your job that you’ve had for a third of your life, given notice on the only place you’ve lived outside of your childhood home and let go of the concept of automobiles, it’s hard not to feel a bit apprehensive, however otherwise hopeful you might be.

Serious shit, y’all.  Can’t wait until I can tell the whole story.

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State of the Blueinthislight, 1/27/13

Just to let you guys know I’m alive.  Due to blinding, constant pain in my jaw, long suspected to be this, there were moments where the alternative seemed kinder.  It drove me to the ER on Wednesday, in fact, as I was convinced my jaw was dislocated.  TMJ can do that, apparently.  And it is officially TMJ now, because a doctor said so.  I’d long suspected due to previous and much less severe flare-ups that it was, and now I know.

As it happened, my jaw wasn’t actually dislocated, it’s just that the muscles on the right side of my jaw were so strongly and unrelentingly contracted that it’s stretching my jaw out of alignment.  I mean, I knew the jaw muscles were really powerful, but goddamn.  They also have some kinda endurance, because they still are.  It lets off a tiny little bit each day.

If that sounds bad to you, let me just confirm that it is in fact as painful as you might imagine.  While that’s the worst part – it seriously, seriously hurts – there’s more, as you might expect when half of your face goes haywire on you.  Currently, it feels as though someone injected a bunch of foam rubber in there; it’s reminiscent of that novocaine feeling you get when a dentist sticks you up with that stuff, but a lot different.  The only reason it resembles injected rubber/novocaine rather than a baseball bat to the face is because of that Tylenol that has codeine in it.  Jaw will only open maybe an inch, and it doesn’t quite close right either.  Takes conscious effort to talk without chewing the inside of my right cheek, which is ironic considering that I am entirely unable to chew anything else, such as food.

It’s okay, I’m well-armed; aside from the happy Tylenols, I have cold compresses, chamomile (a decent muscle relaxant) and ER paperwork justifying potentially a fuckton of sick leave.  As well, the pain is mostly gone now; it gets sore toward the end of the day, but it’s mild, and I refuse to not talk.  There’s only so many concessions I am willing to make to an extremely unreasonable jaw.  Working against me is a horde of female relations who were already terrified for my nutritional well-being because I’m skinny, so you can imagine their reaction to the news that OMG I CAN’T EAT.  You cannot know how much chocolate pudding I have in my fridge right now.  And applesauce.  And Jello.  This sounds ungrateful, I know, but I’m not.  It’s only that under the circumstances, my profligate cynicism gets pretty much free reign until I consciously think to check it.  Plus, you have to admit that when you’re in severe pain and irrationally fearing that your jaw may be stuck like this forever, the last thing you need is to have people constantly asking how you’re doing, thereby reminding you of your sudden and painful deformity.  It is a deformity too:  if you look at my face very closely, you can see my jaw jutting off to my right very slightly.

It not only hurts like hell and takes away my ability to chew food, but it literally twists my beatific visage?  It’s like it’s tailor made to piss me off.

The ER trip scared me a bit.  I have what a Carter Blood-Taker vampire called White Coat Phobia (no seemingly relevant link on Wikipedia, sorry), so as they took me into the back to do the preliminary checking of blood pressure/pulse stuff, my heart rate was high.  The agony of my maw didn’t help much either.  She checked my blood pressure twice, resorted to taking my pulse on my wrist instead of using that finger thingie they have, and asked me if I normally have a fast heartbeat.  No, I don’t think so.  Then they take me back to a bed in a room full of beds, and judging from the way the others were moaning, I suddenly didn’t think my little jaw thing was all that bad.  Then she asks me to take off my shirt as she’s getting out wires for that heart monitor thingie that’s always flatlining in TV shows; you know what I mean.  This has me thinking fuck, how fast was my pulse anyway?  Nightmare scenarios about underlying problems, most of them cancer, begin to form in my mind.  Then she starts putting sticky pads on my chest and hooks me up.

Doctor shows up a little later, I tell him I think my jaw’s dislocated, tell him why, the history, etc.  He feels my jaw and, oddly, sticks his fingers in my ears while he tells me to open my mouth.  No idea.  I’d usually ask, but talking hurts.  He says he doesn’t think it’s dislocated and tells me about TMJ as if I didn’t know what it was.  I start nodding immediately so as to show my preexisting knowledge of said acronym/disorder, incredibly irrationally annoyed that he disagrees with my diagnosis.  I know it’s TMJ, duh.  He prescribes x-rays.  You’re goddamn right x-rays.  We’ll see who’s right, doctor.

They wheel me shirtless to the x-ray room; or, well, not shirtless exactly, but the gown I had kinda looked like how a little kid would make a toga, I mean what the fuck.  I overhear the woman taking my x-rays asking questions of another older woman standing in the background like some CIA handler or something.  So good, trainee taking my x-rays.  She also took my glasses off my face, which pisses me off so bad, but anyway.  Get wheeled back to the bed, doc comes in a few minutes later:  no dislocation.  Fucking asshole.

I have no idea why I wanted to be right about that so bad, but I do know that had it been a dislocation, they could have reset my jaw and the pain would have ended.  As is, there’s pretty much nothing they can do.  So it wasn’t entirely my absurd ego scoffing at the notion that a doctor knows more about medicine than me.  It also rendered the whole exercise pointless, as I only went to the ER because I thought they’d need to reset my jaw, and I know they have to use like muscle relaxers and general anesthetic for that, so I figured a general practitioner would just send me to the hospital anyway.  Ah well.

So, Temporomandibular Joint Disorder.  It fucking sucks.  In other news, I’m very behind on my writing, as horrific pain does make it difficult to concentrate.  Upcoming:  a Book Report on Moby Dick and an article on science and religion that I’ve been meaning to write for a while.  Sneak preview:  I enjoy various crucial aspects of both and consider that there is no conflict between the two.  Or actually, more like the conflict is manufactured by overly militant science nerds and religious fundamentalists, both acting as though they represent the whole of their respective sides.  I’m gonna try to make some peace.  I also have to catch up on the blogs I follow, particularly that kindly vegan woman’s and B-Dog’s.  Have not been capable of reading with attention for a while now.

It’s gonna be jawsome.

Yep, I went there.  I always go there.

Juggernauts versus Underdogs

I addressed this somewhat in my last post, so apologies if anyone finds it repetitive.  Still, the more I think about it, the more it needs saying.  There’s also been extremely recent developments that make it even more noteworthy.

In that last post, I mentioned that Bat World Sanctuary was doing extremely well, against all conventional reason and logic, in the Mozilla Firefox Challenge over on Crowdrise.  First place, in fact, and vying primarily against Jimmy Kimmel and the Ian Somerhalder Foundation without the benefit of celebrity.

I mention this again because it’s a big deal.  This is a world where labor unions are despised even by the people they purport to unite because they’ve been subverted by those they’re meant to oppose, and where the voice of a common voter only serves to have him or her pandered to when there’s an election going, after which they are promptly ignored.  This is a world where big corporate interests will move into a community and bring such destruction that even the earth under their feet is ruined, and for all their outrage and how righteous it is, those who live in that community can’t stop it.  If they stay legal, they are protesters, and they come off looking like strident crazies with some radical agenda just for protecting their home.  If they take direct action, they’re eco-terrorists.  Or maybe even just terrorists, probably akin to how these guys were viewed back in their day.

It needs mentioning again and again and again because for that tiny non-profit to be uplifted by its loyal, everyday supporters until it stood as tall as Jimmy Kimmel and Ian Somerhalder matters.  It flouts everything that our modern society is oriented around even as it embodies everything that our modern society was meant to orient around.  Not only that, but it was the perfect culmination of what Crowdrise set out to do, which was to empower people through unity, through numbers to become a force for change.  Jimmy and Ian both could buy Bat World and the whole town it resides in, but for a glorious little while that did not avail them.

In fact, when they both chucked good form out the window and chose to belittle Bat World Sanctuary, and by extension Amanda Lollar, who pretty much is Bat World, it didn’t avail them all that well then either, only serving to bump BWS down to third place.  They – we – won that and the $20,000 that came with it.  We didn’t have the platform that either Jimmy or Ian did with which to respond, nor did we have what appeared to be affluent lackeys to make huge last minute donations to break the spirit of the contest and unfairly put us ahead, but we resisted anyway.

Had we had blogs on Huffington Post like they do, we might have mentioned that while even on the list of competitors, one could see what Bat World Sanctuary was all about at a single glance, while all one could tell about the Ian Somerhalder Foundation was that it was Ian Somerhalder’s and that it was a foundation of some sort.  And Jimmy Kimmel:  his listing literally just said Jimmy Kimmel, with a picture of his potato face to go along with the picture of Ian looking pensive as he no doubt ponders the woes of this our planet Earth.  Or maybe it was just to brood for the fangirls, I can’t ever decide.  Had we had the benefit of a mass media feting us, we might have publically questioned just how much Ian cares about the animals in his sanctuary when he’s been sporting a bracelet made of leather, and how he feels about this tutorial video showing his fangirls how to fashion the skin of a dead animal.  We might have questioned why his mission statement says basically nothing.  We might have questioned why he named his foundation after himself rather than its purpose.  We might have questioned why Jimmy Kimmel just put his name and nothing more, and if in fact his being Jimmy Kimmel is the problem he’s collecting money to address.  Sure, you could click on it and get more information as to what his charity worked for, but that’s not the point.

The question we would have asked is why they didn’t make similar comments about each other.  We’d have asked if they were going to work the same sixteen to eighteen hour days as Amanda Lollar does.  We’d also ask if they were going to invest the entirety of their personal finances into their causes, again as Amanda has done, but we don’t really need to ask that question, do we?  These guys are happy to help so long as it doesn’t cut into their camera time and primarily costs someone else’s money.  It will never be their life’s work as it is for Amanda.  We know that.

I said in a previous article that the concept of introducing competition to charity work made me uncomfortable, and this is why.  You might say it was a little harmless trash talk, but when Ian mentioned that his animal sanctuary would have all kinds of animals, bats included, and thus ridiculously implied that Bat World was somehow exclusionary, it crossed the line that people of his lofty ilk often seem unaware even exists.  When Jimmy plead to his fans to “not let the fruit bats beat us” and himself implied that fruit bats are a novelty that doesn’t matter, he crossed that same line.  How are you going to see those kids in Kenya fed without fruit, Jimmy?  Fruit bats pretty much pollinate all of it, and even you’re not actually handing them actual fruit, that big gaping hole in the food chain would make the rest of CTCs work very, very difficult as the resultant havoc is wrought upon the ecosystem.  Besides, Bat World is in North America, which is home primarily to insectivorous bats – that’s bats that eat insects, Jimmy – which even without West Nile Virus being around, is very important.  Biologists have predicted that if insectivorous bats were to go extinct, which is a possibility now with the advent of White Nose Syndrome, that insect populations would very, very rapidly reach alarming numbers.  Thanks to the money Bat World won despite your attempts to prevent it, they will soon commence construction of new facilities that will be able to house assurance colonies for species that are threatened with extinction.  Bat World does have fruit bats, but only those they’ve rescued from the exotic pet trade and zoos, where their 25 to 40 year lifespans are nearly inevitably cut down to less than one year.

And you, fey Ian:  so you’re just gonna throw all the animals together?  You have a private ocean at this sanctuary of yours?  A mountain range?  Marshlands?  Plans underway to airlift a chunk of the Serengeti to your sanctuary?  Really, it’s like something a little kid would say.  Besides, Bat World isn’t exclusionary.  You wouldn’t know this, but animal rescuers specialize because nobody can learn all the anatomical ins and outs of every single species, not because they only like one kind of animal.  Bats require even more specialization, because it’s not like any other mammal has an anatomy that even roughly resembles a bat’s.  Because of this, rescuers tend to work together.  Just yesterday Amanda helped someone who’d found a wounded owl locate someone who knew how to care for owls.  Owls eat bats.  She keeps eight rescued dogs at Bat World, feeds a stray cat that lives behind their building (a cat that is smart enough to know to bring injured bats to BWS without further hurting them herself) and even a frog that has learned to hang around for the bowl of mealworms it finds set out for it every day.  At the Bat Castle is a kiddie swimming pool in the summer for the local raccoons to help them endure the blistering Texas summer heat.  At the site where the new facilities are to be built, plans are being made to co-exist with the very often highly destructive wild pigs that occupy the land, which even a lot of other animal lovers are saying is impossible and that the pigs need to be moved.  So yes, Bat World does help animals other than bats, and they do it themselves rather than paying someone else to do it while they go off and brood and pretend to drink blood or whatever.

I don’t say this stuff because I’m angry that Bat World lost its first place spot; unlike the Ian Somerhalder Foundation’s vague mission statement about “world change”, Bat World’s clear goal was to raise the money to commence work on this new facility.  With the money they raised, the third place prize money and Amanda contributing all but the sentimental parts of her entire inheritance from her recently deceased father, they accomplished that.  Many people who hadn’t heard of Bat World Sanctuary before now know about them, and as best I can tell, things look bright.  So even though two celebrity juggernauts stepped on them, Bat World still came out okay.

It’s the stepping on them, the belittling comments and the eleventh hour $10k donations just so happening to come in to charities fronted by rich men with rich friends that I object to.  I also object to Crowdrise hiding my post saying so on their Facebook page.  To be specific, someone who actually knows how Facebook works (I do not) suspects that they marked my comment as spam, meaning that I can still see it, as can my friends, but nobody else can.  Didn’t think I’d see that, did you?  You did leave it alone when I reposted it and after other people had liked it, so, thanks I guess.  Harder to be sneaky when people are watching, I know.  And the sad thing is that I genuinely liked Crowdrise.  I didn’t blame them for what happened at all, but then they went and de facto condoned it.  My voice is already so faint compared to Jimmy’s and Ian’s, and they tried to stifle it further.  They are evidently not all that big on empowering the little guy in ways other than taking their money.  You can help express your disapproval by going here.  Or here.

Lastly, I would like to state that my criticisms are only for Jimmy and Ian themselves.  No doubt there are good people administering those non-profits that are knowledgeable in their fields, genuinely want to be of use and are grateful to Jimmy and Ian for empowering them to do so.  I did criticize the ISF’s mission statement, but in the end I only think they might benefit from making it more clear what they’re about, as again, I’m certain there are great people working hard to do some good.  And for whatever disagreements I may have with whomever watches over their Facebook account, Crowdrise is doing a hell of a lot of good for a hell of a lot of people.  I was sorry to see the spirit of their Challenge undermined the way it was,  just as I was proud of Bat World Sanctuary for backing them up against the wall.

I’m just saying that if Ian and Jimmy wanted that $50k for their charities so bad, they could have written that check themselves rather than talk down to a non-profit for whom $50k means the world.  Amanda would have written it, if she had their money.  It all comes down to how badly you want to help, and whether you would still help if it hurts to do so.

Happy 12/21/12!

As we all know, the world ends today – because clearly there’s not a more mundane, practical reason to the Mayan Long Count calendar ending, right? – and I’d just like to say it’s been a privilege to participate in the exchange of ideas here and to get to know some people here that are quite a ways outside the circles I normally move in.  It’s always good to broaden one’s horizons, to hear and to be heard, to bring disparate peoples together that might not otherwise meet.  Nothing but good can come of it, if done for its own sake.

Hey, how do you think time zones will affect the imminent apocalypse?  For example, maybe the world might end here first, since I’m in roughly the same time zone that the Mayans might have been in, maybe, so maybe we here might blink out of existence or burst into flames or be swallowed up by the very earth itself first, and then it might spread out to the rest of the wor

Dear WordPress:

Please stop changing the statuses of my posts from Draft/Pending Review to Published.  Nobody needs to see that.  I am aware that it’s partly my fault due to my login habits, or lack thereof, and that the auto-logout seems to make your client act a bit funny, but there is no need to expose your readers to the liminal and maddening void that lies sleeping just beneath reality itself, one day to awaken and devour space and star and man.  On that incomprehensible day, no amount of begging, no prostration, no benediction will preserve our sanity from the horror of even the merest stirrings of those vast and tenebrous things that exist beyond form, for whom our highest gods are beneath notice, but until then we should probably just chill and try not to think about it too much.

It’s a good thing nobody actually reads this, and that this is only a motivator to finish writing the things I start, because this way I don’t have to explain those duplicated paragraphs to anyone who saw them.  I will, though:  I am incredibly, psychotically picky about the wordings with which I say things, and commonly write paragraphs multiple times to see which one I like best.  I firmly believe that with the proper wording, a reader could be moved to tears by a description of how to make pancakes.  It’s probably an unrealistic standard to hold oneself to, but when you get right down to it, it’s not actually all that important to actually meet that standard at all.  The thing is to keep improving toward it, to never think “okay, this is as good as I wanted to be, now I’ll just maintain.”

A thing is only an amalgamation of circumstance, and circumstance alway changes.  Time always moves forward.  The you that began to read this isn’t the you that just read this line, and it’ll be another you still that reads my last sentence.  You are constantly being created and destroyed in every moment.  Maintenance, then, as well as anything that appears to neither proceed or degrade, is just a trick of perception.  It’s a pretty word for stagnation.

And you know, I don’t even like Lovecraft that much.  Or rather I like his ideas far more than the way in which he wrote about them.  Huh.

Triskaidekawhatever

I swear I don’t do this often.

By “this”, I mean posting shit about myself that none of you could possibly care about.  I also probably mean whining too.  Cuz I’m not gonna lie, this could possibly be construed as whining.  To me, whining would be if I were to relate the events that I will shortly relate, and then assert that these events mean my life is shit and that the breaking of my coffee decanter plunged me headlong into blackest depression.  It’s not, and it didn’t:  there won’t be anything stronger than exasperation here.  Intense exasperation, in some cases, but still exasperation.  In fact, the only thing I’d say is remarkable about any of it is the rapid and seemingly daily occurrence of things that would exasperate one:  by Wednesday I was waiting for inanimate objects to defy my will.  It would be a bitterly short wait.

Monday:  Wake up 30 minutes before due at work.  Realize near-flat tire wasn’t aired up last night as intended.  Get up, dress, run out door, drive to thieving 50 cent convenience store air compressor down the street with only two quarters in pocket.  Pray near-flat tire isn’t being shredded.  Air up tire, be too groggy to appreciate that tire is still intact.  Drive to work and have rest of day be emblematic of morning.

Tuesday:  Bash knee really hard on door at work.  Force self to not limp until lunchtime, then lie and say it happened during lunch to avoid bureaucracy.  Arrive at home, rest, think to self my knee’s better than I thought it would be, that was lucky, then attempt to stand.  Howl wordlessly.  Limp for next two days.

Wednesday:  Wake up, stagger limp into kitchen, immediately knock coffee decanter to ground.  Stare in disbelief at razor sharp wreckage in bare feet.  Dismember black thingie that holds coffee filter, drip coffee directly into mug.  Leave broken glass cleanup for later, because FUCK.

Thursday:  Resolve to finally solve rare and week-long problem:  too many ideas to write about; all are intertwined.  Pick most tangled one, spend rest of night trying to not write eighteen essays at once.

Friday:  Awaken minutes before computer locks up with previously mentioned and actually good essay displayed, as if to mock me.  As if it wanted me to see my ideas die.  Resist urge to call in sick.

I think it’s all because I mocked the previous Friday, which was of course the 13th.  I even pointed out that 13 used to be a good number before superstitious idiots perfectly reasonable people who believe that numbers can hurt them slandered its reputation so callously.  Thank you, reality, for showing me that uninformed superstition triumphs over an ancient culture’s history, culture and spirituality.

That’s just fucking great isn’t it.

Do rhetorical questions get question marks?  I’m too busy looking up the number thirteen on Wikipedia.  See, back in the day, when some bad shit happened there were, like, thirteen things present.  Sometimes.  Still, groups of twelve people do bad shit all the time, so why not demonize twelve?  Better yet:  you know what number was somehow present for every bad thing that has ever happened ever?  One.  Yes, the loneliest number.  I WONDER WHY.

Thanks for reading.  Apologies for all this not being relevant to any other human being in any possible way.

Post-script!  A few minutes ago:  Click away from New Post screen by accident.  Hit back and find it blank.  Abort imminent blind rage/crying jag with crash course on WordPress draft functionality.

Misanthropy Fuel

Allow me now to share my early morning aneurysm with you fine people.

Aww. It’s so cute when I pretend that I have readers like that.

My brother just brought my attention to an article on Gawker, and Christ I wish he hadn’t. No, I won’t source the article: am I writing a term paper for college here? No.

No, I am not.

Anyway, in this article, the results of a poll conducted among upper middle class people were reported. Said poll inquired how much income some of these families were bringing in, and then it asked whether or not they felt “poor”. Did you ever think someone who brings in three quarter of a million dollars a year could feel poor? WHY YES THEY CAN, ACTUALLY. “So, so poor,” actually. Allow me now to bring your attention to those little marks before the first ‘So’ and after the word ‘poor’? That means it’s a quote. That means it’s their own words.

THEIR OWN MOTHERFUCKING WORDS. THEIR. OWN. WORDS. I don’t mean to treat my readers as stupid by getting this point across with a blunt object to the head, but the idea that a person bringing in such an income could be mistaken as to their own prosperity, that a full grown and university educated adult could not know what poor actually means, that they would be so ignorant as to declare it publically…all of this requires that I relay this to you with as much clarity as possible, else it would seem like hyperbole on my part rather than on theirs. That would be the natural conclusion, wouldn’t it? Nobody could be that ignorant, right?

Ah, but one of them anticipated that us in the unwashed masses would react with a confused mix of disbelief, mirth and rage, and so they kindly broke down their monthly income for us: you see, when you take a closer look, you’ll clearly see that they’re really only making a measly $11k a month, and that after expenses against that $11k, there’s only a paltry $4k or so left as disposable income. What’s more, they referred to us naysayers as “haters”, effectively rendering their breakdown of their finances into a mathematical variant of the white trash standard: “YOU DON’T KNOW ME!!!”

See, the problem lies in the fact that their woeful inability to buy a new private island every month doesn’t exactly get at my heartstrings, being that their disposable income per month is more than double my ENTIRE income in a month. That is, on its face, blatantly, nakedly NOT poverty. It isn’t. How they feel is immaterial, this is nothing to do with emotion; there has been delineated both by formal government legislation and informal societal consensus a state known as poverty. There are qualifiers to said state, and anyone lacking those qualifiers does not live in said state. That’s it. And no, absurd senses of entitlement are not a qualifier.

It’s a classic case of rationalization: despite what they say, they don’t feel “poor”. They think they do, but they do not. So what is it? Well, it’s that they know people – a boss, a neighbor, a relative, perhaps – that make significantly more money than them, and being shallow and materialistic, they are consumed by jealousy and feelings of inferiority because those guys own twelve summer houses on four continents while they must content themselves with only having three on two. In short, they feel GREEDY, not poor. Absurd senses of entitlement are not a qualifier.

This paragraph is a late edit, as this just came to me a minute ago, but there’s also a pervasive and widespread victim mentality involved here.  Their sentiment, honestly expressed, would be:  yes, I am so cash that my blue blood has turned green, but I’d sure like some more money.  It wasn’t honestly expressed, however.  They are objectively not poor, and yet they claimed they felt this way.  Your loving author/father figure has labored in a Herculean fashion through the embolisms and broken monitors and cognitive dissonance and discovered that in this case, what they mean by “poor” is more like “poor me”.

Remember how I said how my gross monthly income is less than their net? Now, do you want to ask me if I myself feel poor? I mean, I must, right? Here, I’ll do it for you:

Hey, do you feel poor? I mean, you don’t drive a Rolls, your apartment isn’t carpeted with the soft, pliant skin of slain Union workers, and hell, I bet you never, ever have enough money to afford that new high-end champagne that’s made from the blood of Southeastern Asian slave girlboys who turned 18 and were rendered useless to their clients! It’s quite piquant. Why, if I couldn’t afford it, I’d be quite vexed. Could you imagine? Quelle embarras! Je cacher sous un rock*!

No, I don’t feel poor. That guy who rides up and down my street on a bicycle that asks me for change now and then and clearly has nowhere to lay his head? That guy’s poor. Yes. That guy’s poor, and we need to rise up and kill our upper middle classes with fucking nuclear winter Wrath of God fucking globally cataclysmic apocalype hellfire, apparently.

But really, what does this say about our society? Maybe I’m wrong, but it seems from where I’m at that a person laboring under such unfathomable ignorance and greed and selfishness is literally and objectively useless on any level deeper than the superficial. Such a person cannot be a good spouse. Such a person cannot be a good parent, citizen or friend. It’s not possible. They have absolutely no perspective on themselves as people, nor their place in society, and likewise they entirely lack an appreciation of their good fortune; it may actually be literally impossible to be more ungrateful. Everything such a person does comes from a state of thorough selfishness and delusion, and thus everything they do, everything that comes from them, is tainted from the start. What passes for their love is surely conditional and subservient to not being defied or put out by its object. The wisdom they pass onto their children is the worst, deepest, most pernicious kind of lie: the kind that comes from such blindness to reality that it’s mistaken as truth. Ultimately, a person so lacking in any kind of knowledge of themselves cannot offer anything to anyone, because they cannot know themselves at all, much less what they might have to offer.

There is, basically, no feasible way that such people can do anything but make the worlds they move in worse and worse, eventually dying and leaving nothing behind but damage that they literally are incapable of taking responsibility for. Their children will come up even worse, too. They, like their parents, will mistake “respectability” for good, greed for need, and they will forever be ungrateful for the security they take for granted and that so many others will never know in their lifetimes.

The Hindus believe that humanity is now living through the Kali Yuga, the end of their cyclical model of time, as well as its darkest point. During this Yuga, the world’s depravity and perversity grows and grows until it collapses on itself, leveling the field for the subsequent golden age that will replace it. From my understanding – which is admittedly not perfect, I am not an expert by any stretch of that word, much as these people are not poor – they meant exactly this. That’s not to say I’m vouching for the absolute truth of the existence of the Yugas, but reading shit like this does kind of make you wish it were true, if only because it would mean this idiocy is on a clock.

That’s a good point to close on: these people, at least to me, are so repugnant, so degenerated, so deeply and irretrievably wrong-headed that it actually seems like we do need some sort of apocalypse to fix it. What else could suffice? Once we as a people are this far gone, nothing’s left but to swipe all the pieces from the board in a fit of godly outrage, go back into monkey mode for a while, and start the fuck over.

And okay, I relent.  Here’s the source.

Please take note of Gawker’s use of the phrase ‘class rage’. No other response to this essay or their article is appropriate. Coming as I do from such a background that even making a quarter million a year rather than the three quarter reported above would be thoroughly life-changing down to the very core of my being, Gawker’s excellent article rendered me pretty much blind with it.

Sorry for ruining your day. Thank you for reading.

*:  A study that I and a friend of mine read a few years ago (the source of which is long lost) found that actual rich people, like reeeeeally rich people, don’t act like this.  Actual rich people, in their habits and ideas, have much more in common with the working class, and it’s only milquetoast douchebag upper middle class wannabe rich people that model their social behavior on Thurston and Eunice “Lovey” Howell.  It makes a lot of sense when you consider how essential utilitarianism is to both lifestyles.  Think about it:  while you spent three hours in the wine aisle googling wine on your iPhone to find the perfect bottle of merlot for your swank dinner party because you think somebody in a movie once said merlot is really good, Steve Jobs was building a sprawling dungeon in China in order to make as many of his employees commit suicide as possible.  Would you do that?  No, you would not, you’d fall back onto your fainting couch and opine on how terrible that is.  In fact, once your feeble, quailing heart had recovered, you’d twitter from your iPhone about how terrible it is, congenitally oblivious to irony as you are.  As you can see, there’s a lot to say on this, and it deserves its own essay eventually.