This is not a letter of complaint, this is definitely not a letter to an ex, and most definitely an ode to misanthropy and malice. Although I am not 100% sure about that last thing, I really can’t stand this societal pressure that is put on all of its members to pursue happiness and be happy in accordance with the standards each community has. The standards that you have to follow to appear happy, but interestingly, if you cannot achieve it, you are condemned to suffer alone. Because in this amazing modern world, you must look good even if you’re a mess. And that is the ironic and sad thing with our postmodern society.
I cannot appear happy if I am not, you see. A friend said not too long ago that happiness is those moments you cherish, it is not a situation you can find yourself in for a long time; it makes no sense to be happy all the time unless of course your senses are dulled by whatever you might take to make you feel better.
I do get drunk, occasionally, but don’t for a second believe that this situation dulls my senses towards the misery of the world that is masqueraded under false pretenses, marriages that are drier than sex with all clothes on, and most of all eternal promises to be broken after the first bumps appear on the highway.
And bad sex. Because bad sex makes everything worse.
But I am bitching, I know. So what do I propose; if I can propose anything that is. Well, for starters, please throw all that formal clothing aside, please. And please remove the cane you’ve swallowed by your own miserable –or soon to be miserable– self.
Grab a chair, grab a drink. And now tell me all about those fuckers around you that you need to smile for 24/7. About that boss, that asshole colleague, all the emotionally draining one night stands and how you go home at the end of the day feeling more of a corpse than the day before. How you crave for that holy day, that Friday, which will then turn to a depressing Saturday and a Sunday that will only lead to a fucking Monday, a Tuesday you won’t remember, a Wednesday you fucking hate, a Thursday that seems to last forever…
You get the point, don’t you? Some periods of our lives are supposed to feel like crap. Makes you appreciate all the good things out there, or fight to get out of the shithole. Perhaps you’ll even get angry, and then this time alcohol won’t dumb your senses down; you will feel empowered, nothing will hold you back. Not your gender, not your social position, not your pathetic credit balance.
Perhaps, and that is just a wild guess, perhaps you’ll become an unstoppable force determined to improve yourself and the world around you. So please, please, embrace your misery. Own it.
And then you won’t be afraid of tomorrow.
But those that mess with you will be very, very afraid.