Birther Schmerther: Trump Brings Up Vince Foster! - Remember five years ago when Trump was a birther? It's classic Trump, and uses the same language he's using now. I really want every single Republican w...
Thursday, May 19, 2011
I'm Going To Run Into The Street And End This
Every day. Every goddamn day.
We wake up. We sit here on our haunches by the side of the road while the rush hour clears out. Then after that last blue minivan passes we make a run for it. We eat some nuts, crap in the flower bed, freak a few neighbor dogs out... and tomorrow we're going to do exactly the same thing. I mate with females I don't even like. I have 36 kids I never see. Look at me, Jerry. I'm eight years old but I look ten. Ten, Jerry.
There is no point to any of this.
I'm not depressed. It goes deeper than that. For the longest time I'd lie there at night in my tree-hole and wonder about the purpose of my life. And then one morning it hit me: That's not even the question I should be asking. The real question, Jerry, is who am I? And I don't have an answer.
Some might say you're defined by what you do. You lose a chess piece, and you can easily replace it with a coin or a button. Because a chess piece isn't really a chunk of carved wood. It's a representation of an actor within a system of other actors and the rules of how they move. Look at it that way, and I'm just one of the guys who makes sure the old lady's bird feeder doesn't ever feed any birds. I'm doing a job, a cog in a great big machine nobody can understand. The fat guy with the Vietnam vet bumper sticker who yells at kids. The ice cream truck driver who deals a little pot to the teenagers. And me, chewing things and tearing up screen doors. Is that worth a life?
I've been thinking of the way Steve died when he jumped onto that power line. How all his hair fell out, and he kind of looked like a little baby squirrel. I remember staring at him and thinking: That's not Steve. That's what's left of him. But you know what? It also reminded me of Steve the baby -- I mean, we grew up together. And suddenly I realized that Steve the baby had died a long time ago and I didn't even know it. Steve the baby turned into Steve the young adult, who turned into Steve the guy with three legs after he tangled with that raccoon. Then came Steve the corpse.
You don't get it, do you Jerry? You're just an illusion to yourself. There's no single, permanent you at the center of all this running around and chattering at kids with BB guns. There's a brain and a body -- some chemicals, some electrical impulses. And all of it is constantly changing. And it's held together by this fantasy of some unitary personality that you are trying desperately to maintain. But someday the whole damn thing is gonna fly apart. For you it will be when you finally duck under that automatic garage door you seem obsessed with.
And behind this fantasy of ourselves? Fear. The fear of dying. Every car, every cat. The fear of dying is the cause and the effect of my own illusion that I'm real. They reinforce each other. Unless you just... let go.
The next time that blue Odyssey comes down the street I am darting out under the wheels. Don't try to talk me out of it. Don't you understand?! Camus said the primary philosophical problem was suicide. He didn't understand what I do. It's not a problem. That goddamn minivan is a solution.
Here comes that poor bastard driving his kids to preschool. Goodbye, Jerry. Don't mourn me. I feel sorry for the rest of you, gnawing on trees and running from strollers. Because I'm free.
(Photo by A.jo; Reprinted under Creative Commons 3.0 license)