I’m skeptical of people who seem to know who they are and I’m wary of those who profess to know too much about anything. I suppose you can know things like the periodic table and you can go on about that for a while or you can know how to work with tofu. People who cook with tofu but don’t really understand it produce something to the effect of what it is and what it sounds like: bean curd. I either have writer’s block or I’m forgetting how to live. Some pot smokers think they’re forgetting how to breathe. Who's to say what’s what?
The worst thing you could do is say, “Let’s agree to disagree,” unless we’re bickering over something petty. If we’re trying to deduce some ultimate truth, don’t be a distraction and point out that one of us thinks a certain way and the other another. But anyways, I don’t want you to think I’d argue about the nature of truth because I feel badly for people who think they are smart. They get all forlorn feeling due to their intelligence, but the truth is that we are alone, the dumb fucks too. I just can’t handle people anymore, nor can I handle all the hipsters in this city with their skinny jeans, their stupid loafers, their ridiculous hair, their sad, mopey looks and their plaid blouses. Jesus Christ. I don’t like being in the city. There has always been in me a desire to be alone. My oldest longing is to own a small cabin in the woods and a canoe, tending to a little garden and keeping the company of dogs and trees and books. Yelling at tourists. Fucking city good-for-nothing tourists. Maybe I’d fuck the tourists. Probably. And then I’d read them things, conjure up some meaning for us and stick it in the air, let it linger in a room that smells like sex.
I never tell my mother anything about my life because quite frankly, I think she’s crazy. Yesterday my best friend Farnia (pronounced FAIR-NEE-AH) made the remark that if Hitler had had my mother in the Third Reich, we’d all be speaking German right now. We’re not joking. My mother is far too intelligent for our own good. Farnia has seen shit go down at my house. My mother has been to California twice to visit Disneyland and she’s not even American, yet somehow last week a Californian Congressman leaves a message on her cell phone and says, “We’ll swoop in there and fast-track your paperwork” for whatever the fuck she wanted done with her friends. She is quite simply a terrifying woman. People in powerful positions revere my mother, reasons for which I am completely at a loss. She is strangely influential, which is why she and I are typically at each other’s throats as she is used to people listening to her and I despise people who can’t come up with their own ideas. I’ve done a whole slew of things, most of which I’ve never shared with my mother. Sometimes I fly to other provinces for a while and let her think I’m at a library in Vancouver. If I told her about the manner in which I conduct my life, I’d have to provide some rationale for it. And I don’t know why I do these things. I don’t have any answers. Answers are for those pretentious hipster fucks I loathe so enthusiastically.
I hate to rag on my yoga teacher because I adore him, which I hate to admit since everyone admires him just as much as I do and I don’t like anything the yogic masses like as they’re these strange ethereal beings I’m quite positive never hear a word I say when they ask me how I’m doing after class. Anyways, I’m not ragging on my teacher Ryan -- I’m just using him as an example. One could say it isn’t his strong suit to be on time. And I think being rather inept at this suits him very much. He carried a watch around the entirety of yoga teacher training to be on time for everything and I thought this seemed very unnatural and detracted from the whole experience. If people are so eager for him to be their teacher, I think they should be prepared to wait a while for him. Being prompt is polite and boring. Making people wait is a good way to make them angry and he’d stir up every other goddamn emotion in us anyways, a quality of a good yoga teacher. He has a way of getting people all fiery and crazy and euphoric about being bendy and spiritual and upside down. And I mean, that’s fucking exceptional because most adults can’t even touch their toes. The night of the day I posted my love-hate rant on how absolutely bizarre I found yoga teacher training to be, Ryan and I were in the Blue Room, the stinking feral-cat-piss room, where he was standing on his head swinging from side to side and where I was relentlessly kicking up into forearm balance because I was hell-bent on nailing that pose. I fucked my elbows that night. Anyways, we were all yoga-swooney by the end of it and we said no hard feelings over my love-hate rant and we talked about our admiration for Kerouac and we discussed how absolutely trippy yoga can be and I asked him if he ever thought it was all in his head and I so liked his response that I smile over it whenever this conversation comes to mind. But I’m getting off-track. Actually I don’t really have a point.
“Truth,” said some professor the other day, “is what your friends let you get away with.”
The worst thing you could do is say, “Let’s agree to disagree,” unless we’re bickering over something petty. If we’re trying to deduce some ultimate truth, don’t be a distraction and point out that one of us thinks a certain way and the other another. But anyways, I don’t want you to think I’d argue about the nature of truth because I feel badly for people who think they are smart. They get all forlorn feeling due to their intelligence, but the truth is that we are alone, the dumb fucks too. I just can’t handle people anymore, nor can I handle all the hipsters in this city with their skinny jeans, their stupid loafers, their ridiculous hair, their sad, mopey looks and their plaid blouses. Jesus Christ. I don’t like being in the city. There has always been in me a desire to be alone. My oldest longing is to own a small cabin in the woods and a canoe, tending to a little garden and keeping the company of dogs and trees and books. Yelling at tourists. Fucking city good-for-nothing tourists. Maybe I’d fuck the tourists. Probably. And then I’d read them things, conjure up some meaning for us and stick it in the air, let it linger in a room that smells like sex.
I never tell my mother anything about my life because quite frankly, I think she’s crazy. Yesterday my best friend Farnia (pronounced FAIR-NEE-AH) made the remark that if Hitler had had my mother in the Third Reich, we’d all be speaking German right now. We’re not joking. My mother is far too intelligent for our own good. Farnia has seen shit go down at my house. My mother has been to California twice to visit Disneyland and she’s not even American, yet somehow last week a Californian Congressman leaves a message on her cell phone and says, “We’ll swoop in there and fast-track your paperwork” for whatever the fuck she wanted done with her friends. She is quite simply a terrifying woman. People in powerful positions revere my mother, reasons for which I am completely at a loss. She is strangely influential, which is why she and I are typically at each other’s throats as she is used to people listening to her and I despise people who can’t come up with their own ideas. I’ve done a whole slew of things, most of which I’ve never shared with my mother. Sometimes I fly to other provinces for a while and let her think I’m at a library in Vancouver. If I told her about the manner in which I conduct my life, I’d have to provide some rationale for it. And I don’t know why I do these things. I don’t have any answers. Answers are for those pretentious hipster fucks I loathe so enthusiastically.
I hate to rag on my yoga teacher because I adore him, which I hate to admit since everyone admires him just as much as I do and I don’t like anything the yogic masses like as they’re these strange ethereal beings I’m quite positive never hear a word I say when they ask me how I’m doing after class. Anyways, I’m not ragging on my teacher Ryan -- I’m just using him as an example. One could say it isn’t his strong suit to be on time. And I think being rather inept at this suits him very much. He carried a watch around the entirety of yoga teacher training to be on time for everything and I thought this seemed very unnatural and detracted from the whole experience. If people are so eager for him to be their teacher, I think they should be prepared to wait a while for him. Being prompt is polite and boring. Making people wait is a good way to make them angry and he’d stir up every other goddamn emotion in us anyways, a quality of a good yoga teacher. He has a way of getting people all fiery and crazy and euphoric about being bendy and spiritual and upside down. And I mean, that’s fucking exceptional because most adults can’t even touch their toes. The night of the day I posted my love-hate rant on how absolutely bizarre I found yoga teacher training to be, Ryan and I were in the Blue Room, the stinking feral-cat-piss room, where he was standing on his head swinging from side to side and where I was relentlessly kicking up into forearm balance because I was hell-bent on nailing that pose. I fucked my elbows that night. Anyways, we were all yoga-swooney by the end of it and we said no hard feelings over my love-hate rant and we talked about our admiration for Kerouac and we discussed how absolutely trippy yoga can be and I asked him if he ever thought it was all in his head and I so liked his response that I smile over it whenever this conversation comes to mind. But I’m getting off-track. Actually I don’t really have a point.
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