Tell me how to think, tell me how to feel, tell me exactly what you mean because I can’t possibly figure it out for myself. Misunderstand what I’m saying, put words in my mouth, make an honest, measured comment out to be a hate-speech laughing at the plight of others.
Tell me I’m wrong, never let yourself be told you’re wrong by me. Claim amnesty and immunity from reason, yet use that same reason to attack me. Lure me in with the carrot then beat the living piss out of me with the stick.
Laugh at me, never with me. Dance like no one is watching, but always watch me dancing. Fear nothing but fear itself, but make me fear you.
I am, of course, talking about my ex. No, wait – I mean ‘the world as it seems’. This is a bit of an irritation from today that seems to have blown up into a way more dramatic intro than it ever needed to be.
What I wanted to get at was this ridiculous culture of having to explain oneself, all the time, for everything. It’s one of the biggest negative points of living in a world so closely connected, yet connected in such an unemotional way. All the smilies in the world don’t substitute for good old fashioned inflection (and hand waving (and amazing facial features)).
And it works both ways. It works in the way that I am seemingly forced to explain that saying I don’t care if a chain of shops is shutting down is not the same as saying “I am glad thousands are out of work”. I shouldn’t have to explain that, because it’s fucking obvious.
It also works in the way that people feel the need to head it off at the pass (or at least editorialise in everyday life), telling me of how something that is clearly tragic is tragic. Newsflash, hotshot: I’m not thick. A lot of people aren’t thick. The death of dozens of kids doesn’t have to be asterisked with the small print pointing out to me that I should find this news saddening in some way.
Well, unless I’m a psychopath, in which case I would need to be told how to feel. But then, that wouldn’t really matter. I’d probably be the one that caused those kids to die in the first place.
AND ANOTHER THING: jokes are never ‘too soon’.
I need to go to bed. Or to watch Friends until this angry malaise passes (which will seemingly be Never).
I wish I was as good at writing as Dr Thompson.
I’m going to have a coffee.