what the fuck do you do man?
Tonight wasn't all that bad out there, I got a fair share of green lights and the stench of the crowds had vanished.
Not like the other day though, when I was hitting all the red lights and found myself held down in the corner of a bus by a cloud of perfume, hairspay and raw human pungency. All the while lugging dented cans of beer that had wiggled lose of their plastic holders, recently mangled by the city street. And, in one of the worst parts of town too, they're savages down there, they'll pick you clean if you don't keep moving.
I had to get off the cart early the smell and the heat of the thing had me physically sick. But standing out there in the death of autmun, under the oppressive skies in this god forsaken country, filled me with only a different order of despair. Strolling slowly to the place I was, if only briefly, glad I had arrived.
Inside she's asking me questions about New Soctland. Typically, I find it tiresome to answer questions about my life, especially when they seem the product of boredom, that is, I think people for the most part don't really give a shit about anybody else, and if they inquire it's because they cannot think of anything else to say, don't like the silence, or just can't stand not knowing, not having control. And, more often than not these questions are a way in to talk about themselves anyway, people just can't get out of their own heads.
I particularly abhor questions about vocation, this is, in my opinion, one of the least interesting topics for conversation - nobody cares, people are disingenuously curious, and much of this talk seems only to be characterized by random self affirming ejaculations.... just the other month some joker asked me at a party, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I wanted to cut his tongue out, if for no other reason than in order to prevent some future individual from having to suffer such nonsense.
While I often meet such questions about vocation with lies and evasiveness, I was surprised to find myself lying about NS. What's the matter with me? And, these weren't methodical lies, I wasn't trying to put on airs. They were silly lies, for instance, I misrepresented the population, I rearranged the geographical location of towns, I exaggerated historical events, and tinkered with distances. It was all very strange, it all seemed to be happening with no intention on my part, all this was happening as if I were a wallflower looking in on this conversation that was happening between myself and somebody else.
As I had said, when I find that strangers are being invasive, cruel, deliberately insincere or pushy I've no problem with employing a range of evasive tactics. But my bullshit was certainly uncalled for in this situation, she was a kind human-being and perhaps even genuinely interested. Good grief.
Not like the other day though, when I was hitting all the red lights and found myself held down in the corner of a bus by a cloud of perfume, hairspay and raw human pungency. All the while lugging dented cans of beer that had wiggled lose of their plastic holders, recently mangled by the city street. And, in one of the worst parts of town too, they're savages down there, they'll pick you clean if you don't keep moving.
I had to get off the cart early the smell and the heat of the thing had me physically sick. But standing out there in the death of autmun, under the oppressive skies in this god forsaken country, filled me with only a different order of despair. Strolling slowly to the place I was, if only briefly, glad I had arrived.
Inside she's asking me questions about New Soctland. Typically, I find it tiresome to answer questions about my life, especially when they seem the product of boredom, that is, I think people for the most part don't really give a shit about anybody else, and if they inquire it's because they cannot think of anything else to say, don't like the silence, or just can't stand not knowing, not having control. And, more often than not these questions are a way in to talk about themselves anyway, people just can't get out of their own heads.
I particularly abhor questions about vocation, this is, in my opinion, one of the least interesting topics for conversation - nobody cares, people are disingenuously curious, and much of this talk seems only to be characterized by random self affirming ejaculations.... just the other month some joker asked me at a party, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I wanted to cut his tongue out, if for no other reason than in order to prevent some future individual from having to suffer such nonsense.
While I often meet such questions about vocation with lies and evasiveness, I was surprised to find myself lying about NS. What's the matter with me? And, these weren't methodical lies, I wasn't trying to put on airs. They were silly lies, for instance, I misrepresented the population, I rearranged the geographical location of towns, I exaggerated historical events, and tinkered with distances. It was all very strange, it all seemed to be happening with no intention on my part, all this was happening as if I were a wallflower looking in on this conversation that was happening between myself and somebody else.
As I had said, when I find that strangers are being invasive, cruel, deliberately insincere or pushy I've no problem with employing a range of evasive tactics. But my bullshit was certainly uncalled for in this situation, she was a kind human-being and perhaps even genuinely interested. Good grief.
posted by j/r at 5:55 p.m.
2 Comments:
Ditto your disdain for the formulaic vocation question. I don't believe what one does for a living is necessarily relevant to who they are.
yes there's this, and banal, sometimes fraudulent too... though I think it's a sin it leaks where it doesn't belong.
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