Monday, August 11, 2008

I can't relate and that's a problem that I'm feeling...

My mind is all over the place so bear with me. Or bare yourself...with me. Or something.

I didn't expect the Olympics to be this entertaining. That's probably the sixth or seventh time I've ever said that. Every time the Olympics come around I assume I won't care about how some burly woman from Uruguay won the gold medal in some sport that I didn't even know was a sport. I usually end up being wrong.

I watch obsessively; not only do I root for the Americans but I watch contests between countries that I either a) didn't know existed; or b) didn't care existed, with such fervor that you'd think I was competing. I want Michael Phelps to win eight golds, the Redeem Team to dunk over Pau Gasol over and over again, and use the wonderful magic of DVR to watch and re-watch the womens' gymnastics events without violating my parole. Do I feel bad that the Games are being played in a cesspool of a country known for its cheap labor, pollution woes, and atrocities against humanity? Absolutely. Will I watch all sixteen glorious days and then go back to pretending China doesn't exist? You betcha.

America, Fuck Yeah!


Sometimes I think I know too much.

Not that I honestly believe that I have vast, nearly unquantifiable amounts of information in my head; I think it's more along the lines of having an almost superhuman sense of context. I find myself tuning people out halfway through their stories/sentences, already knowing how they're going to end. There's just something about context, cause-and-effect, and body language that I just "get". I should preface that it's not that I consciously do this most of the time.

This has been both bad and good for me. It's good in the fact that I can dive into my own mind and play around while someone is talking and I'll still know what they've said afterwards; not because I was listening but because I've gathered from the way they're standing, talking, sighing, etc what the gist of the story is and what my reaction should be. It's good because I can listen to someone talk and know what to say to them in order to solve their problem, or at least cheer them up a bit.

The bad thing about all this is that I'm pretty sure that this ability had led to the near-complete draining of my empathy. I wouldn't call the feeling "depression" per se, nor would I say that the feeling is extreme enough for people to consider me a sociopath; for the most part, unless I really am invested in the outcome or if you're a very important part of my life, I just don't care. I'm not trying to be mean about it; in fact, sometimes it's a sad feeling. Someone could be pouring their hearts out or telling me the funniest story they've ever heard and I could really not care less.

I'm not sure what the reasoning behind it is, or why I have such a heightened sense of what people are feeling and thinking. What I do know is that I have a hard time relating to most people. To me, their problems aren't hard to fix or deal with because I've already decided what I would do in their situation to cope or fix it by the time they've finished talking. How am I supposed to be sympathetic when I've already figured out how I would deal with it?

Does it sound as crazy while you read it as it does to me while I'm typing it? It sounds crazy but it makes perfect sense to me. It explains why I tend to become everyone's therapist; by the end of the tale(s) I've become so removed emotionally from the outcome that my advice tends to be blunt and incontrovertible.

I don't want you to get the impression that I don't care about anything or anyone; of course I do. I have loved ones just like everyone else. I have passions that make me feel such great joy that I want to cry sometimes. I can feel for family and friends. I'll donate time and money to causes I care deeply about. I could just care less about most things.


What brought this on tonight were the actions of an asshole on my morning train. I was sitting in a seat with my iPod on; I was doing the crossword at the time. When the album playing finally ended (Matchbox Twenty's Mad Season...from a time when they didn't suck) my ears picked up the words of the man sitting next to me. He was a black man, about 30 years old, and he was talking softly enough for the closest of us to hear. He was talking about how all of us around him sit on the train and read their papers, listen to their iPods, talk to each other about work while we "tune out the sorrow of the people who don't look like you; who suffer while you drink your coffee and live your lives." He mock-yawned in our directions to imitate out uncaring natures for those less-fortunate than the people he knows.

I was honestly too pissed to answer him. That, and I didn't want to get stabbed (and I'm not saying that because he was black; he was muttering to himself on a train full of people and being hostile). The nerve of this guy to babble on and on like an asshole about how uncaring I am because I'm minding my own business on the way to work while he lectures us "uneducated folk" on the train is hysterical. I just wanted to knock him the fuck out and start screaming at him. What the fuck is he doing to help? Is he doing non-profit scolding on the train for Amnesty International? Who the fuck is he to tell me what I care about? He doesn't even know me! he's doing the same thing I'm doing: sitting on a train, heading somewhere. He wasn't serving soup to homeless people on the train. He wasn't volunteering at the Special Olympics. He wasn't tutoring at-risk youth. I've done all that stuff with no regard for how it looks to other people; who is this asshole to judge me?

Obviously, I feel very strongly that people who have no idea what they're talking about should just shut the fuck up.

I'm talking to you two fuckfaces in particular.

Unfortunately, we're all headed for a real-life Idiocracy where the dumbest and most ignorant among us will soon have the largest voice, volume-wise. I hope to blow my brains out before that day comes.


...well, someone ready my pistol because we're heading towards the End of Days at warp speed.

I know this may seem like a backpedal from a previous post, but there is something that's been bothering the FUCK out of me for a week now: Veggie Monster.

What's Veggie Monster? Good question. If you've ever watched Sesame Street then you probably already know who he is. You may know him by his slave name, Cookie Monster.

Also the 2nd gunman on the grassy knoll.

Apparently, the idea of a lovable puppet that couldn't get enough cookies was a diabolical plot solely responsible for the rise in childhood obesity (see: mini-marshmallows) and just had to be stopped. I mean, it would just be too hard to regulate a child's weight using conventional methods such as exercise, eating right, proper education, and appropriate television and video game restriction. Instead, let's neuter a beloved and iconic children's television character and make him a shell of himself.

What's next? Does he sing "V is for Veggie"? Is Oscar just "misunderstood"? Does Telly go to AA?

How is this "thing" NOT a drunk?

I know I've said before that there's only so much parents can do, that there are just too many voices reaching kids' ears these days, yada yada yada. However, a child's weight and level of activity is something of which a parent or guardian has direct control. A guardian feeds their child in most cases; a guardian monitors their level of exercise. In other words, the only reason to blame for a child's utter fatassery is the adult who takes care of him or her. Success in bludgeoning PBS long enough to begin the pussification of the last bastion of educational television does not make you a good parent; it makes you a complete asshat.

Instrumental in making Cookie Monster suck.


Sorry for going all Andy Rooney on you tonight. I really did have a great weekend but I'm just tired from 300 miles of driving and continued feats of stupidity from my underlings at work. I love life and I love the people in it; it's the rest of you fuckers I can't stand.

Good night!

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