YOU ARE NOT COOL
That's right. You. Don't try to hide, don't try to pretend. You're a loser. The highlight of your week is getting shitfaced at the same old fucking bar in the french quarter, or running into whatever B-list celebrity happens to be touring our little third-world city this week. What have you accomplished? Nothing. You have nothing to be proud of. No, your Halloween costume does not count. Killing neurons with booze, sleep deprivation, and unnecessary social stress does not make you tragically beautiful. It makes you stupid. Pretending that nothing is sacred and that nobody matters to you by being an asshole to everyone you meet does not make you cool. It makes you sad.
I'm not saying I'm any better. I've got my own issues, but I don't flaunt them as though they were virtues. Hell, I'm a borderline alcoholic anti-social pill addict. I've got some pretty high aspirations, though. Determined to be Doctor Crawford before I'm 30. What the fuck does that matter, though? One (hundred) more tortured, decapitated rat(s) in the name of science. Just keep telling myself it's better that way, that the rat(s) needed to die for the world to be a better place. Better for who, I'm not sure.
What got me started on this tangent? John Williams. One of his songs came on my iPod earlier and I almost had a wreck I was so deeply emotionally involved in the song. I have a measurable physiological response to his music, and no, I don't mean that I vocalize or smile in response; my blood pressure goes up, my heart rate increases, and I get goosebumps. Did you know that the only person to ever have more Oscar nominations than him is Walt Disney? John Williams makes me worthless, makes my musical "talent" null. Robert Sapolsky makes my stress research look like a middle school science fair project. I could go on ad nauseam, but why bother?
I'm not saying I'm any better. I've got my own issues, but I don't flaunt them as though they were virtues. Hell, I'm a borderline alcoholic anti-social pill addict. I've got some pretty high aspirations, though. Determined to be Doctor Crawford before I'm 30. What the fuck does that matter, though? One (hundred) more tortured, decapitated rat(s) in the name of science. Just keep telling myself it's better that way, that the rat(s) needed to die for the world to be a better place. Better for who, I'm not sure.
What got me started on this tangent? John Williams. One of his songs came on my iPod earlier and I almost had a wreck I was so deeply emotionally involved in the song. I have a measurable physiological response to his music, and no, I don't mean that I vocalize or smile in response; my blood pressure goes up, my heart rate increases, and I get goosebumps. Did you know that the only person to ever have more Oscar nominations than him is Walt Disney? John Williams makes me worthless, makes my musical "talent" null. Robert Sapolsky makes my stress research look like a middle school science fair project. I could go on ad nauseam, but why bother?