142: There's Trouble A-Brewing, When You Start A-Thinking

There's trouble a-brewing, when you start a-thinking.

Not that I'm a thinker, nor a communicator, mind you. Because I believe most, if not all, great thinkers, being also great communicators, when illuminated with an idea, however abstract and intricate it may be, they know how to share that idea, provoking and expanding the minds of the feeble masses, with effortless ease. I mean, one reason among many that we think Bush is an idiot is that he can't speak English; no one understands him.

So, as I was saying: not that I'm a thinker, nor a communicator; but still... I'd rather not think.

You know, at this point, you are supposed to lie and say, "No, you are a great thinker and also a great communicator!"

No? Is it too tiresome and beneath you to stroke the ego of a self-proclaimed loser?

Well, FUCK YOU! I HATE YOU.
No! I love you; I LOVE YOU...
Fuck me instead. Cum on back, please.

So, yeah, I'd rather not think. I'd rather sit in front of a vanity and run a comb down my well-conditioned hair (it's not), counting each stroke (too lazy to do), up to a thousand (up to five is more likely), preening and primping (don't know what that entails), making myself pretty. Because when you are pretty, you are happy. And even if God decides to hate the pretty ones (highly unlikely), cursing them with trials and tribulations (oh no, his Gucci man-purse ripped), but if their beauty is intact, they still will be happy. Sure, they may suffer some. But ugly people suffer, too. And there are more ugly people in the world than there are pretty people. Pretty people intrinsically understand this, and their innate ability to see the world for what it is will give them this natural ability to be happy. Being pretty equals being superior equals being happy. So, I'd rather not think; I want to be pretty instead.

It's the biggest dilemma I have right now: How can I stop myself from thinking and be pretty instead, when any medical alteration, be it a lobotomy or a pectoral augmentation, is not an economically viable option?

But then I've heard it said "throughout your life, God will throw at you life's challenges that only you can handle." This "belief" seems promising to me. It says that there is a way for me to empty my head and fill my biceps, and I'd be better for it. I would have grown in wisdom—wasn't it Buddha who said everything is meaningless? Why then ponder about nothing?; and I would have matured in beauty—like a sole lotus blossoming in a garden pond.

Yet boredom finds me once in a while lifting a book (often drawn to biographies or memoirs), flipping its pages, and reading the words. But, damn it, the voices of the authors encroach my mind, and there's a rapid succession of electrochemical thunderstorms, which makes me see the world in a new light. I'd admire their shear bravado in overcoming difficult situations, the richness of their lives. And inevitably, I'd compare my life to theirs, realizing how easy I have had it. But then I'd find myself turning green, followed by the envious hue deepening, moving one spectrum down to blue.

My mind races: Does God not think that I'm strong enough to overcome more difficult challenges in life, so that I, too, can have a rich life, one that's admirable to others, or rather one that makes others jealous of me? Does he think me that weak that my only concern now in life is to be like Natalie Wood and to sing, "I Feel Pretty?" And WHY THE FUCK AM I THINKING?

GOD, WHAT AN ASS! I HATE GOD!
No, I love God; I LOVE YOU...
Don't smite my back!

Oh, how I am constantly reminded of the Japanese lady with two Master's Degrees who tried to work at a Korean deli! She philosophizes almost every night on Avenue Q how two polar opposite forces can inhabit an individual at the same time. I quote: "Love and Hate, they like two brothers who go on a date." Indeed they are like two brothers on a date, "where one of them goes, other one follows. You inviting love; he also bringing sorrows."

Let it be said that yours truly will explore this life's mystery. Why two contradictions exist at the same time and space. Why people have no problems with life's many paradoxes, while I do. And why I am a Gemini—the living embodiment of the two opposites, the wishy and the washy. Yes, I shall investigate why my desire to not think is provoking me to think.

It's a beautiful and ugly world!

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This post was brought to you by the letter "V" for vapid; and the numbers "3" and "1," the number of comments I've got for my hype-cast and the number of fingers I'm holding up in response to the low number. Oh, and guess which finger. Just kidding—I don't really care... yet I do care...some. Ah, another paradox.

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Pace ed Amore!
xoxo