Luxury

It's one of those thoughts you just kind of stumble into and have to run with. I said, quite by accident, that existential crises are luxuries. And I will stand by that exact word, because while it does not seem very useful to be paralyzed with cripplig self-doubt, proto-ulcers (our age's equivalent of the scourging whip), and other assorted fun things, it is necessary. Someone has to do it. It is a luxury and a priviliege, and let me just pount out how ambigouous that statement is. So, do we attack existential crises as rich-kid wankery, or do we praise it as something a select few have attained? I have no answer. Actually, all that means is the answer is not very satisfying: it's both. I make my best output in times of fear and crisis, but at the same time I just need to shut the fuck up sometimes. You know, shut the fuck up and do something. Anything: poke a fucking badger with a spoon. That kind of stuff. Throw a tennis ball into a fruit pile. Make bad punk music on an acoustic guitar. Dance. Fucking dance to ghetto-ass strobe lights made by flicking a light switch repeatedly. Drink and stumble. At the same time, what is all that shit for? I like to attach a certain permanence to these impulses by paying attention to them. But I quickly get too abstract and realize there's no permanence. But that's taking the God's-eye-view, and what we cannot speak of we must pass over in silence. So, I don't know: we existential-crisis-having motherfuckers need to participate, and the participants need to geve themselves an existential migraine. By the way, the word existential is totally extraneous to this post.

Peace.

Consider: "Quand on a terminé sa toilette du matin, il faut faire soigneusement la toilette de la planète. [When you've finished getting yourself ready in the morning, you must go get the planet ready.] "