When you’re tired of the same four blips over and over again, you’re tired of life. That’s what my imaginary friend always said to me and it’s what I’m contractually obligated to believe. You can’t take it with you, unless “it” is defined as “all the happiness in the world for some poor, sad loser.” Take it or leave it, it’s what you get. I like expressions like that, like “Believe it or Not!” They say “I’m lying. You can choose to ignore this fact at your own peril.”
When you’re tired of “Ain’t no Holla Back Girl” by the incomparable (which means, please, don’t compare her to anything or she might look bad) Gwenn Steffannii and her little Japanese chamber maids, when you’re tired of “Hip Hop” and its bastard clones, you’re tired of working for eight hours in a place that smells of sweat and health food. No, not a brothel, although that certainly has its upsides. No, at this point one is considering becoming bored with ones current nocturnal activities. One may already be sick of a loud woman with a thick New Jersey Accent calling one at midnight (OR SO) and saying, in effect, I know you’re already asleep, I know you hoped never to hear from me again, but godamnit, please, won’t you come in. Saying, You’re My Only Hope!
Backing oneself into a corner is a fine way to ensure the soft hearted something to do with our time. Ahhhh, to be a hard hearted bastard, to be the imminently hate-able fellow I can so often see in my Mind’s Eye, I can so often hear in my Mind’s Ear, I can so often understand is so absolutely right when he tells me to tell certain people to, frankly and simply, shut the hell up and go the hell away.
What could be worse than life? Well, says the resident wiseass, death. That’s a sentence fragment and it hurts to see it there, doesn’t it? Yess. Of course it does.
It’s always the end of time. It’s been the end of time since time began and it’ll be the end of time in a million years. Remember: don’t live life like this was your last second; this IS your last second, and so is THIS! Aaaaggh!! It never ends.
But that’s a fallacy, isn’t it? It ends elegantly and alone. It ends suddenly and with great gusto. It ends because that’s the natural order and no amount of nasty will change that, so why not be positive and admit that life is beautiful and, if not eternal, at least sometimes very, very long? If you want to realize precisely how long life can be, sit for eight hours and learn to look forward to putting bottles of fruit punch into a cooler for people far more fit than you to drink. This will teach you precisely how long life is. Christ, has it only been an hour? Well, money in the pot, as they say. Well, “they” don’t say it. My imaginary friend says it. And my contract says it, too. Making you sign a contract when only a few minutes old seems a bit harsh, but that’s one of the bylaws of the club. Life must seem a bit harsh until you look at it from another perspective. Then it needs to look very, very easy.
“Easy like a high school boy,” says my imaginary friend. He needs help, though. He’s got problems. I’m sending him to the imaginary shrink tomorrow.