Riposte

I feel compelled to insert information, but I have none at the moment. Oddly enough, I have recently become fascinated with foreign language syntax that has no translatable English counterpart. By far the best: L'appelle d'vide. French. The urge to jump from high places. The call of the void. Notice how no English words illustrate this longing for the unknown. How fitting. We would rather use the elevator.

Fernweh. German. The longing to be far away. Not to explore or to journey, simply to be somewhere distant. Precisely.

Pohmelyatsya. Russian. The act of sobering up by drinking more. God bless the Motherland.

Toska. Russian. The untranslatable. As close as possible: A sensation of great spiritual anguish, a dull sickness of the soul, or a longing with nothing to live for. In particular cases, a desire or lovesickness for something unattainable. Our counterpart? "Oh, gee. I'm really sad."

Did anyone else erupt in applause with the news from Israel on their presidential election? Personally, I enjoyed it much more than our own. Israelis know how to swear on the Bible pretty damn well. Of course, it helps that I have lost all respect for our President. I will not even begin on that subject. I'd be writing for a fortnight.

There is nothing so humbling as to witness a person emulate you. And nothing more infuriating than witnessing a person use emotional scars to their advantage. Subsequently, those who abuse their social clout with those less fortunate or gifted and those who manipulate through guilt should be deemed unfit to live. I do seem to be quite indignant today. Perhaps it is not a good day for narrative. Perhaps my head is empty. Perhaps, perhaps, perchance, mayhap, possibilities, passivity, nonplussed, pragmaticism, paleocene. What the hell am I doing?

Life is one colossal incomplete question mark, waiting to be punctuated.

Errata

Maybe I should begin all of my posts with song lyrics. Not very original, but every word an individual has ever uttered is simply old news in a way. Or maybe my poetry. That's debatable. Shoddily written, angst-inundated, quasi-cryptic lines are not exactly in the best interest of my ego. We'll pass on that, on account of my missing poetry tomes. No, it's not an excuse. I'll post some for your derision as soon as I can.

After all, in a nation of American Idol and America's Next Top [Insert high-paying mockery of a job here], you sure are good on passing judgment, now aren't you? Most playwrights agree that an audience will not respond well to a show that accuses them directly. Good thing this isn't a theatre, you self-centered, ignorant, hypocritical, faithless pricks. Feeling offended? Good. Now you can develop an argument to defend your lifestyle and your existence. I'll teach you to think yet, little one!

I had a quaint metaphor for life a few minutes ago, but it has eluded me. Probably had something to do with love, death, etc. The few things humans themselves are interested in. Even Shakespeare surmised that (Either way, he's still an idiot. Cue the angry Brits! God save the 'Speare!). I find it amusing that humans are so very afraid of death, yet lament their own tribulations daily. Condemned either way, is it, people? Well, just drown your sorrows in Chunky Monkey. Ever looked at the (lack of) nutritional contents of garbage like that? Hypothetical. Please don't make me spout off those ungodly numbers online.

Lots of other things amuse me, of course, including tall people, antique clocks, online identity shifts (Now I am a level 30 Night Elf! We'll see if the Football team captain still trips me in the hallway!), the center of the Earth (We know more about Pluto than we do about the Earth's core. Care to guess as to the distance we've bored in to examine its secrets? 7.5 miles maximum. Out of 3954 miles, of course. And we spend money on breaking small particles into smaller particles...), Polaroid cameras, books that are never read, and extras in action films (Read the credits at the end of the next [HOLLYWOOD ACTION BLOCKBUSTER!!!!] movie. Those people actually get paid).

I'm very sleepy. And it's very rainy. My bed looks very soft right now. Verily, I shall retire to my quarters.

Don't think. Not about me, at least. Wait, let me rephrase that. Think about you, however cryptic that seems. Personalize your thought. You'll understand.

Josephus?

Rutherford Birchard Hayes is my hero.

I can count the number of trophies, medals and various paraphernalia in my room, but I can't remember the last time I was happy. Don't worry. I'll tell you I'm just kidding and you will trust me, won't you? I can't blame you. I wouldn't bother with me either.

As a matter of fact, if I were to meet myself, I don't even think I would recollect the encounter. Does that make me nonexistent? If I cannot instantiate the memory of myself theoretically, am I myself simply a figment of my own imagination? Did any of that make sense? What is sense, anyhow? Is this getting out of hand? What is a hand? A tool, an appendage, a branch of the bodily electromagnetic pathway, et cetera? Alright, alright. I'll stop.

So who wants to discuss optimism?! I don't, but I'll do it anyway! I don't know why I'm putting exclamations on my sentences! Overall, optimists are fun to listen to! They should get out more, but realistically that wouldn't change anything, would it! Hence the optimist nomenclature!

It's interesting how an individual's musical taste evolves over time, but some artists stay in favor throughout the ages; bulwarks for the lost (Bulwark? When will you use that in colloquial speech? A cool word, regardless). I feel quite safe having an aging Pomona bastard with cheese grater vocals, a musical prodigy with a penchant for wading in deep rivers and just staying, a lucky guy who happened to audition for Broadway, a crooner who always sounds better in a smoky bar with the weight of the world resting right on your sternum, a sexy, painted bitch with a voice lower than yours truly, and the world's oldest bluegrass artist keeping me afloat while I pick up those little mussels from those little pools and put 'em into a little pail just like a little kid.

An alarming amount of my favorite artists are quite dead. How very unfortunate for the both of us.

Three One Five Four Two

The District Sleeps Alone Tonight.

Yeah, and so do millions of other miserable people. Get over it.

How many people does it take to socialize our country? Apparently three, and fittingly all from the Northeast. I wonder if they were just turned on by their swing vote-ality. We'll see how this one works out. Either way, I'll still be angsty. I guess I should get used to it.

If I hear one more person say "Just enjoy your life and have fun!!!!", I might start bleeding from my ears. Do they actually glimpse some higher cognitive plane in which we are incapable of understanding? Are they completely ignorant, sheltered sheep? Or do they purposefully blurt it out, hoping to depress as many people as possible? Maybe Geraldo Rivera will host an on-location breaking news story on the very subject. Oh, the skill! Panache le moustache!

I guess I should just write about Valentine's Day and get it over with. Oh, come on, you knew it was coming. Where do I begin? Honestly, it never registers with me on the day itself, simply the days preceding. Tempus fugit. Sanguis effluvit, but only sometimes.

But enough of my self-righteous Latin phrases. My second language has been dead for hundreds of years. Maybe it died when it realized Valentine's Day was simply an excuse for jocks to get some action... "Hey dudes! Achilles brought some totally boss babes!" Meanwhile, in a galaxy far, far away.... Bah bada bah! The rest of us ("You're a really good friend, but I just can't see us together..." Oh, If I had a nickel for every time I heard that...) are watching Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, lamenting the lack of stars, beating ourselves to sleep with naive love songs, swallowing as much chocolate as is medically appropriate, and preparing the perfect depressing Facebook status as we write sappy poetry to that certain special "anyone will do because I'm desperate! Look! I can make promises on how I'll never leave you!!!! Please just hold me!!! And could you take off your pants, real quick?".

Meh. It'd be a waste to defend the male libido. Don't be ignorant; You know where men think from. But don't blame 'em. Some have good intentions. And while I'm on this subject, can someone please elaborate on the paradox that women absolutely adore homosexual guys, but shy away from true men? Oh, we are in for an awkward future, my friends... News flash, ladies! He will not sleep with you! But I guess that's what they enjoy about them. No commitment, no attraction, no natural instincts, no emotion, no passion, et cetera. Whatever makes girls feel less like grown women seems to be all the rage in this time and age. So while Valentine's Day passes us by and we forget to tell that actual someone how we feel, let us contemplate the blessing that keeps them with us, forever gleaming on the mantelpiece like a Little League trophy for Good Sportsmanship.

Well, unless they're not here anymore. Then, believe me, you're screwed.

I write too much.

Beat

Eh. Humans are uncomfortable with silence and direct eye contact. If I only had a nickel for every time my conversations were filled with inane comments to prevent any space of stillness. Let us call these entities sharks; Just keep swimming/walking/talking/lying/etc... Unable to pause, unable to keep still or silent, they are doomed to continue in constant action for fear that stopping will enlighten them to some great and not-promised-by-Barack-Obama transcendental truth. And no one wants enlightenment, now, do they? After all, we have named, categorized, and bottled - for your convenience - every secret that this world has to offer (Good night, sleep tight, don't let the Cimex lectularius bite). Why? For science, my dear boy! The study and remediation of the human fear of insignificance!

Somewhere many miles from here, a man is searching for the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, while another is forming hypotheses concerning the nature of ultraviolet rays in rainbow composition. Scientists call rainbows a "phenomenon", for lack of a better term (or imagination). They also believe that 14 million years ago something went boom and now Michigan looks like a senile old man without dentures. The Wiz is badly written.

Sleep is the milkshake of life. Some people choose the strawberry and slurp contentedly their faux-fruity beverage. Some people buy the chocolate chip and then complain about their straws becoming blocked with chocolate-y goodness. And some are stuck with the haphazardly-concocted vanilla which, although unassuming, always contains the bitter remains from the machine's mechanical mixer, and is ultimately undrinkable. I should probably try my luck with smoothies.

You know you're a pessimist when you complain about your team's shortcomings after winning the Super Bowl.