Third try is the charm
Damn. Ever have one of those days where you start writing, and things just don’t seem to be coming together? This will be my third try at a blog post today. The first two, well, the first was me going off on how the world gives us all feedback and what it’s given me lately, boo 2 tha hoo, is that I’m kind of a total misfit Asperger’s dweeb who does a few things remarkably well but sucks at plenty of others, including friendships and other relationships, especially with women, and that there are times when I seem to be doing okay and even thriving, but that sometimes things fall apart on me kinda quickly and I’m left with the bittersweet goldenrod patina of tears and hurt feelings sullying my otherwise copacetic mien.
My second attempt was a wild stab in the other direction, inspired by chimpanzees, or one in particular, romping about in the first episode of the new fourteenth season of South Park (about 11 minutes in, for you sports fans), which made me think that all my problems could be solved overnight if I could just morph into an insufferable asshole with a fuckload of money, and then I could blithely bang and swerve my way around the planet like an entitled wastrel, spreading tons of wreckage in my wake. Hey, man: Fuck you! Hey, babe: Fuck you, too! Literally!
Which might be fun, come to think of it. At least momentarily.
But the true path lies in what the Buddha called the middle way, and that’s where I’ve got to steer this juggernaut of existence. I need to stop being so self-involved, maybe, and start becoming more outer directed, and sweet, and kind, and gentle. And even though the world has become such a polarized place, with people embracing one extreme or another, maybe that’s not such a great idea for someone like me to skirt with extremes.
Oh, fuck it. I just need to make a humongous amount of cash and have some goddamn fun for a change. I need to repurpose the entire way I position myself in this world — my brand, so to speak. I think I need to become the biggest douchebag this world has ever seen, a fuckstick of Brobdingnagian proportions. That’s it. I’m giving up on the nice guy thing. It’s douche for me. It’s time for me to show the rest of you swaggering alpha-male assholes what a real swaggering alpha-male asshole is about. You know the old joke that asks what’s the difference between a porcupine and a Porsche? Well, here’s a new punchline: With a porcupine, the pricks are on the outside; with the Porsche, I’m driving, and fuck you, get out of my way, you’re wasting my goddamn time and I’m tired of your bullshit. Oh, and before I forget: Fuck you.
There. That felt better. Now to work on my misogyny and morning drive-time toilet humor, along with making fun of people less fortunate than me. Which is everybody.
Gee whiz and gosh darn, Mister Griffith. You sure got up on the wrong side of the bed today, didn’t you? Yep. And I don’t even have a bed to get up on the wrong side from these days, which is about to goddamn change, let me tell you, because I’m tired of my life sucking, and if I have to grow old, I’m gonna grow old by being a greedy, good-times-grubbing prick motherfucker who doesn’t give two shits about anybody else, especially you. I’d tell you to get off my goddamn lawn, but get out of my way will suffice.
Um, all philosophizing aside, it’s Tuesday, and today is one of those days I feel like I just haven’t woke up. Awakened up. Waked up. Screw it. Stopped sleeping. But I’m still asleep. Not to mention that I’m living way outside my comfort level these days, and sometimes I’m pretty cool with that, but there are other times when I’m not.
Today, I’m in a pretty decent mood (no, really, the stuff above is just me venting for a cheap laugh), except for a short stretch of riding along Alhambra Boulevard, for which I shall propose a name change of said thoroughfare to the city, the new name being Clueless Assholes Who Can’t Drive Boulevard. Shoutout to the card-carrying stupidfuck in the Nissan Quest minivan that nearly clipped me while pulling out of the Wells Fargo branch at Capitol, and sounded like it was running on one cylinder: Dude, you damn near ran me over, twice. I’d say learn to drive, but that’s probably not a possibility in your case.
Most likely, I should not post this. Maybe, if I went and got that big slice of devil’s food cake with extra frosting that I didn’t get on Sunday, or maybe some apple pie a la mode, I’ll stop being in such an intermittently shitty mood, and I can move on with life and get happy again and spread happiness like Mister Sunshiny Sunshine. Or maybe I’ll just go see the amazing and legendary Blowfly do his thing, and that will pull me out of this particularly lethargic and slightly dyspeptic Tuesday. Ah, to hell with it. Better luck tomorrow, right? —Jackson Griffith
Postscript: Okay, I’ll stop being a butthole now. Get happy!