Cats are the only creatures that can relax aggressively.
You know that feeling when someone you care about suddenly comes out with a really obnoxious, pseudo-political opinion that you know they picked up from some toxic talk radio host, or a co-worker they spend too much time with; and they just won’t shut up about it because they want to have an argument; and you know their argument is as fucked as their opinion, but at this point you only know it on an intuitive level, and you don’t want to argue about it, so you try to disagree vaguely; but they just keep fucking at it until you snap and start arguing; and now you’re into it and you get into the zone and you completely fucking destroy their whole argument, from foundation on up, and you get excited because now you have figured out why their argument and opinion is fucked and have told them so; and they totally ignore everything you said and just keep repeating their useless fucking talking points like you haven’t completely demolished them already; and they still WON’T FUCKING SHUT UP; and you get this wave of hatred for them that is only as profound as it is because you love them so much; so you fucking snap and totally lose your shit and get completely inappropriate; and then they wander up the high road, like some kind of long suffering martyr, and call the argument quits because you’re “getting too upset,” and they forgive you with this shit-eating grin of theirs; and you just want to stab them in the neck; to feel their hot life’s blood squirting through your fingers; but instead you calm down and go and get something to eat with them; and later on they bring up the “argument” to a third party and frame it in such a way that makes it seem like they totally won; and now you don’t give a shit because you love them like you are a cretinous puppy, so you smile and nod, and throw out some mea culpa for losing your temper; and when you finally get home you really feel like it was pretty good day?
One of my problems in life is that I have no sense or natural expectation that hard work and quality will in any way be rewarded or even appreciated. Rather, I expect just the opposite. I’m not sure why that is.
The squeaky wheel may get the grease, but the protruding nail gets the hammer. What combination of neglect and abuse foundationed the notion in me that I am a nail and not a wheel?
Why do I identify more with Van Gogh or H.P. Lovecraft than, say, Picasso or J.K. Rowling? Those giants of their craft who died utterly unappreciated and unrewarded speak more to my expectations of my place in this world than any dream of fantastic recognition and success.
“Just be yourself and do what you love” is just as much a recipe for madness and dismal failure as it is for success. It depends on what you are and what you love. Some people do not fit. But perhaps under all the sedimentary layers of garbage and filth in me lies a being that the world will rejoice in seeing.
Perhaps not, though.
Either way, though, I push on. What else is there to do?