Borderline Self-Actualisation
So I get the bus in and out of work every day. It’s shit, but it’s cheap - and I’m cheap and shit, so it works. I’m not sure if you understand just how shit my bus route is, but if you try and imagine a trichotomous warzone composed of chavs versus illegal immigrants versus tramps, then run a Red Cross bus through it, with orders to pick up troops from all sides that are too stupidly pissed-up on White Lightning to use their butterfly knives, then you’ll come somewhat close to what I experience each morning at half 8am.
So this morning I dodged the empty cans of beer, half-eaten fast-food, illegitimate children, dogs and bikes and took a seat opposite a diseased looking chav couple. They were having an argument. It was quite a good one, actually. Horribly pasty chav girl in italics:
Yeah… Did you just see tha?
Wha?
Dave. Dave just goron.
Didee? Didee? Where?
He sat round back innit.
Oh yeah!
You fancy im innit?
Wha? Nah.
You used to fancy im innit?
Oo tolja that?
Michelle innit.
Yeah, well… Yeah innit.
Why dinja date im?
Oh yaknow.
Nah, what innit?
Ee’s fit innit.
So?
Too fit for me *gurgly giggle*
Ee’s not!
Ee is!
Ang on, ang on… You’re saying I’s not too fit for you?
Wha?
You’re sayin ee’s more fit than me innit!
Wha? Naaaah..!
Youarr!
Look, innit, ee’s not…
Then wha- Ah forget it – you got that twennypee I need for a pie?
Twennypee!?
Yeah, you said you’d gimme twennypee for a pie!
I neva!
Fuckin bitch! Owmi gonna get me a pie?
Fuck off, innit!
Fuckin slag!
With that, they got off the bus arguing. Now, their argument illustrates to me something which was mentioned in a comment on Lovelorn Swain’s blog. I won’t repeat the entire comment, because it’s rubbish, but here’s the bit that got me thinking:
“You think it's a big problem to have an unrequited loved? Just think of how privileged you are in the world in general just to be able to nurture such a sick romance.”
That comment could have been directed at any one of us. It’s also, bluntly, quite true.
Take the chav couple. The fact that they couldn’t afford 20p for a manky pie took precedence over their random interpersonal squabbling. If I’d had that initial argument with my girlfriend, we wouldn't have dismissed it for pies. We’d have rowed about it all the way off the bus, all the way back home, breaking furniture inside, hurling the cruellest words we could possibly dredge up at each other, sleeping in separate beds, cheating on each other, breaking up, getting back together, breaking up, and then I’d construct a huge, damning post on LIAC about how shit the entire world is.
So I’m exaggerating, but you know what I mean. Let’s take another angle, in case you’re a cretinous dingletwat.
Take a look at this:
Bizarre, isn’t it? I pinched it from this site, one of many which outlines the personality theories of one Abraham Maslow. Whilst I don’t agree with all of the theory he proposed, I do agree with a lot of it, including (in a broad, general sense) this diagram of our “pyramid of needs”. In essence, what it’s saying, is that we have a number of needs, and some of these are more compelling than others. Food and water, perhaps, are the most compelling – for without these there’s no way we could fulfil our other needs for comfort, friends, etc. And once we have those, we have needs for entertainment, intellectual stimulation, etc. And right at the top, when we have everything we’ve ever wanted, we start to self-actualise. Which basically means we can do whatever we want. We become who we truly are and want to be. We star in pornography.
Or whatever. It doesn’t matter, as none of us will ever self-actualise, because we’re all fucking retarded sacks of sputum, eking out our miserable existences as best we can. What I want to focus on is the fact that dwelling on love’s cuntitude would be something which features quite high up the pyramid of needs.
The proletarian scum that I saw on the bus didn’t dwell on their trivial argument for more than a few seconds before realising they didn’t have enough money for food. Silly example, I know, but it works. We, on the other hand, have such good fortune as to have pies, computers, the spare time to browse and write blogs, and therefore the dubious privilege of being able to dwell on life’s misfortunes more than most. Others simply can’t afford to.
To put it a final way: It’s not harder to handle a break-up, sitting wretchedly in a penthouse overlooking the Thames, teasing strains of Chopin from your Steinway Grand. But it’s a lot easier to dwell on a break-up if you don’t have to work 23 hours a day down’t’mill.
And that’s what we do here. We dwell on break-ups. We post about it. We read about it. We write little anonymous comments about it.
And dwelling on break-ups is LIAC. If we didn’t dwell on them, we wouldn’t realise how inherently fucked some of this stuff is, and we wouldn’t get even nearly as jaded, and the cuntery wouldn’t cunt us into cunts.
So which way is right? Well, the LIAC way of course. It’s all an exploration of ourselves and our condition. We just have the time, money and lack of anything more horrifying in our lives to do it.
So just remember: It’s our plush lives that let us feel the daggers of the Morning Star so sharp and constant in our backs. It’s our amassed wealth - the cash that puts each of us in the top 2% of the world’s wealthiest people - that lets us pansy about writing page after page about our poor hearts. And it’s our globally rare opportunity to think about anything which doesn’t involve prevention of painful death, that let you write that stupendously bad poem. You know the one. It was shit.
Oh, and I do realise that those chavs on the bus this morning can feel heartbreak. They were (barely) human, after all. They just don’t give us much of a shit as we do.
They still smelt awful, though. [/snooty fucktard]
So this morning I dodged the empty cans of beer, half-eaten fast-food, illegitimate children, dogs and bikes and took a seat opposite a diseased looking chav couple. They were having an argument. It was quite a good one, actually. Horribly pasty chav girl in italics:
Yeah… Did you just see tha?
Wha?
Dave. Dave just goron.
Didee? Didee? Where?
He sat round back innit.
Oh yeah!
You fancy im innit?
Wha? Nah.
You used to fancy im innit?
Oo tolja that?
Michelle innit.
Yeah, well… Yeah innit.
Why dinja date im?
Oh yaknow.
Nah, what innit?
Ee’s fit innit.
So?
Too fit for me *gurgly giggle*
Ee’s not!
Ee is!
Ang on, ang on… You’re saying I’s not too fit for you?
Wha?
You’re sayin ee’s more fit than me innit!
Wha? Naaaah..!
Youarr!
Look, innit, ee’s not…
Then wha- Ah forget it – you got that twennypee I need for a pie?
Twennypee!?
Yeah, you said you’d gimme twennypee for a pie!
I neva!
Fuckin bitch! Owmi gonna get me a pie?
Fuck off, innit!
Fuckin slag!
With that, they got off the bus arguing. Now, their argument illustrates to me something which was mentioned in a comment on Lovelorn Swain’s blog. I won’t repeat the entire comment, because it’s rubbish, but here’s the bit that got me thinking:
“You think it's a big problem to have an unrequited loved? Just think of how privileged you are in the world in general just to be able to nurture such a sick romance.”
That comment could have been directed at any one of us. It’s also, bluntly, quite true.
Take the chav couple. The fact that they couldn’t afford 20p for a manky pie took precedence over their random interpersonal squabbling. If I’d had that initial argument with my girlfriend, we wouldn't have dismissed it for pies. We’d have rowed about it all the way off the bus, all the way back home, breaking furniture inside, hurling the cruellest words we could possibly dredge up at each other, sleeping in separate beds, cheating on each other, breaking up, getting back together, breaking up, and then I’d construct a huge, damning post on LIAC about how shit the entire world is.
So I’m exaggerating, but you know what I mean. Let’s take another angle, in case you’re a cretinous dingletwat.
Take a look at this:
Bizarre, isn’t it? I pinched it from this site, one of many which outlines the personality theories of one Abraham Maslow. Whilst I don’t agree with all of the theory he proposed, I do agree with a lot of it, including (in a broad, general sense) this diagram of our “pyramid of needs”. In essence, what it’s saying, is that we have a number of needs, and some of these are more compelling than others. Food and water, perhaps, are the most compelling – for without these there’s no way we could fulfil our other needs for comfort, friends, etc. And once we have those, we have needs for entertainment, intellectual stimulation, etc. And right at the top, when we have everything we’ve ever wanted, we start to self-actualise. Which basically means we can do whatever we want. We become who we truly are and want to be. We star in pornography.
Or whatever. It doesn’t matter, as none of us will ever self-actualise, because we’re all fucking retarded sacks of sputum, eking out our miserable existences as best we can. What I want to focus on is the fact that dwelling on love’s cuntitude would be something which features quite high up the pyramid of needs.
The proletarian scum that I saw on the bus didn’t dwell on their trivial argument for more than a few seconds before realising they didn’t have enough money for food. Silly example, I know, but it works. We, on the other hand, have such good fortune as to have pies, computers, the spare time to browse and write blogs, and therefore the dubious privilege of being able to dwell on life’s misfortunes more than most. Others simply can’t afford to.
To put it a final way: It’s not harder to handle a break-up, sitting wretchedly in a penthouse overlooking the Thames, teasing strains of Chopin from your Steinway Grand. But it’s a lot easier to dwell on a break-up if you don’t have to work 23 hours a day down’t’mill.
And that’s what we do here. We dwell on break-ups. We post about it. We read about it. We write little anonymous comments about it.
And dwelling on break-ups is LIAC. If we didn’t dwell on them, we wouldn’t realise how inherently fucked some of this stuff is, and we wouldn’t get even nearly as jaded, and the cuntery wouldn’t cunt us into cunts.
So which way is right? Well, the LIAC way of course. It’s all an exploration of ourselves and our condition. We just have the time, money and lack of anything more horrifying in our lives to do it.
So just remember: It’s our plush lives that let us feel the daggers of the Morning Star so sharp and constant in our backs. It’s our amassed wealth - the cash that puts each of us in the top 2% of the world’s wealthiest people - that lets us pansy about writing page after page about our poor hearts. And it’s our globally rare opportunity to think about anything which doesn’t involve prevention of painful death, that let you write that stupendously bad poem. You know the one. It was shit.
Oh, and I do realise that those chavs on the bus this morning can feel heartbreak. They were (barely) human, after all. They just don’t give us much of a shit as we do.
They still smelt awful, though. [/snooty fucktard]
posted by Juliet is Bleeding... | 12:47 pm
As I read this post I thought for a moment that I had been sleep-blogging last night because not only is it delightfully bitter and well-written, it delineates my same thought processes as of late.
"We just have the time, money and lack of anything more horrifying in our lives to do it."
This realization, however, does not make me feel better. It just dumps a stinking pile of shame and guilt upon my obnoxiously crestfallen existence. If I have all this privilege and still can't find at least a shred of equanimity in my life, then I'm a truly doomed and selfish cunt of a fuck-up.
Glad I'm not the only one.
Oooh, a chart!
Tree: Yep, you're definitely not the only one. In fact, I was also appalled by the very middle-class obscenery that let me write this. And you're right, the realisation doesn't help. In fact, privilege - in this case - is a cunt.
Anon: I knew someone would like it!
Reading that post made me realize something: I need to get a job. Then maybe I wouldn't have so much time on my hands to think, brood, and write crappy, incoherent thoughts in my journal.
But then that would take away all the fun in life, so I suppose being a slacker with a rather fucked love life is just as good as anything else. At least I smell nice while I'm at it. ;)
Damn NL, that's such a truism you touched on. I always got horribly depressed during holidays from school, because there was just so much time to ponder, ponder, ponder absofuckinglutely every minute detail of your life and dwell on the slightest thing and snowball it into a huge sphere of self-hate.
Thus, I've not had a (long) holiday for over a decade now. I just busy those demons away.
Of course, it doesn't work. I'm just the office bastard.
Jib, while I completely understand what you've just gone on about,the whole idea is a bit stupid isn't it?
If you are someone of priviledge, it would mean that you have been smart enough to put yourself in such a position. Therefore, if you are smart enough to be in a position to lollygag, ponder about this rubbish and ultimately, write a blog explaining an indepth thought process, which really isn't that indepth at all, You HAVE to be smart enough to realise that this whole scenario is very easily corrected - Or maybe I'm missing that one blasted puzzle piece.
Anyway, I once again fall into an astounded frame of mind at how difficult you make things for yourselves.
After all, love isn't difficult. Being smart enough to be in love with someone, that's the hard bit.
Your comment sort of imploded as soon as you suggested privileged people were smart by definition. Which was pretty quickly.
Regardless of implosion, I'm still shocked that you think heartbreak isn't difficult. Are you a chav?
What the hell is a chav?
A UK term for some of the more hideous folks that plague our streets.
See here for more information.
In fact, it seems to be in the dictionary, too. How splendid. But the previous link gives a more comprehensive grounding.
So basically you're hatin' on trailer trash, media whores, and wiggas by calling them "chavs." Personally, I think that's pretty stuck up, but hey, if it works for you then who am I to judge? (Of course, I'll judge anyway, as that is the only natural thing to do...)
If you go by the dictionary definition, the chavs mentioned on that website (the one's under "How to Spot a Chav") do not fit the profile, because they are not of the lower class (though they might've come from that environment) and they are intelligent enough to make it in the entertainment business and earn more money than I'll probably see in a lifetime. I mean, it is difficult to be an idiot and still maintain control of your finances, though I'm sure it is not unheard of for the opposite to pose just as much truth (Anna Nicole, for instance).
It is stuck up. Hence "snooty fucktard" at the end of my post.
Still, every single person in the UK hates chavs - strangely enough, including chavs, who always look down on the level of chav beneath them, presumably in an attempt to not seem so chavvy themselves. There are many levels to chavdom, and in fact, to the upper class I would probably be considered a chav for not wearing a bespoke suit.
That's what you get in a class-ruled nation. It's kinda fun.
As for your second comment; the dictionary definition (in terms of the slang) isn't quite as spot on as the chavscum site's - as I said. Anna Nicole and Paris Hilton are both chavs, for example. You don't have to be poor, or even stupid, to be a chav. You just have to be a loudmouthed fucking dickhead that sorely deserves a slit Achilles tendon.
Like most of us here at LIAC?
Or when you know your neighbors are on their way home because, even before they turn onto your street, you can hear word-for-word the music blasting in their car? (Man, someone ought to shoot my neighbors, especially when they sit out in the driveway after getting home, just chillin' in the car with that loud ass music on, meanwhile I can hear that shit in every room of my house. It is not as if I can stick my arm out the side of my driveway and be trespassing on my neighbor's yard, either. No, I live in the country--hence the name "Woodville"--and yet I can still hear that damn music. My god, those people are going to drive me insane.)
That is, absolutely, the sort of thing.
I am sick and tired of all the chav-whore bashing that goes on around here. If you Limey lizard-stickers don't want your chavs, you just send them over to the Yanks. We specialize in hanging chavs...or chads...or something. And everyone knows chavs give the best head around.
Furthermore, the problem with Maslow's pyramid is the fact that it's not open-ended. The top shouldn't be closed, because as you said, no one ever achieves his very best potential in realizing himself. Because I’ll tell you what. If most people could "find themselves" or "self-actualize" (yeah, I'll use a "z" instead of an "s" because I'm a fucking arrogant American and I don't give a good goddamn what the rest of the Western world thinks about my spelling) they'd toss themselves over the fucking fence and run for their short meaningless lives. Once you “know yourself” you never want to know yourself again. I think self-loathing is an integral trait of the truly Cunted kindred.
And listen to me, you rich, spoiled bastard. I'm not wealthy or anything. Safe to say I'm pretty poor. But I have a brain. And that’s what ninety percent of these bloated gasbags around us don’t have. It’s got nothing to do with your precious filthy lucre. Most people simply don’t stop and think about their lives. They can feel, sure. They have heart. But they can’t think. You can’t teach people to think. You can give them facts, but you can’t teach them to think.
That's why they aren’t introspective, tortured souls biting their nails to the bloody quick and tearing their eyes out and posting on LIAC. That's why most people can work a tedious job and drink a six-pack every night while watching four hours of mind-numbing drivel on television without ever stopping to ask, "Why am I here?" or “What’s the meaning of all this?”
They're brainless fuckwits. Sheep. And that’s all they’ll ever be no matter how well fed they are or how great their education was or how far they climbed the corporate ladder. Because someone told them perturbation causes blindness and hairy palms.
And you know what? It really does. And I think they're blessed. I envy them. I wish I was one. Yes. I wish I was a pussy-eating chav who had no higher goal or thought or purpose in life than just eating more pussy.
And what in the name of bullfrog creeping Jesus is wrong with my Blogger profile? It says my most recent post was from September of 2004. I mean, I post infrequently, but not THAT infrequently.
TO be honest, Witt, when I say "privilege" I don't just mean cash. I mean your entire situation. The fact we don't *really* live in warzones. Etc.
Thought I made that clear, to be honest.
As for Blogger profiles - their database got frozen a while back and they've been too fucking lazy to sort it out. Still, you get what you pay for...