What is the point?
I was thinking about what definitively separates a kid from an adult. It's cereal. When you start eating more eggs and bacon than Cinnamon Toast Crunch, that's when you're an adult. That's when you start down the path of bogus priorities. Down the path of self destructive behavior. Down the path of losing your sense of humor. Down the path of saying a list of things by repeating the first few words instead of using commas because your points are too profound to fit in one sentence. Down the path of using "going down paths" as an all-encompassing metaphor for all your shitty decisions.
People who take their lives seriously are boring to hang out with, but when I'm not around them, their existence causes me destructive emotional pain. For that reason, it's almost less traumatic for me to hang out with boring people than to sit alone and hate that they exist somewhere. I just need to know who is who. That's why the first thing I do when I meet someone is look in their cereal cabinet. If the cereal isn't relevant to my nostalgia, I leave. I also check the expiration dates to make sure they're not just left over from younger days. I met this girl at a night club, who later ruined my life. I should have seen the warning signs, because I went over to her place and saw she she had a box of Frosted Flakes that was so old, there was a picture of a little orange kitten on the front.
That's the kind of shit that bothers me about someone. Because you know that Frosted Flake girl is not going to wander into the woods and find frogs and rub their tummies and sing them lullabies. She's too good for that. Too good for frogs, too good for Honeycombs, and too good for me. The only thing that makes her a content individual is going to night clubs and finding guys lives to ruin. And I attribute it all, on a semi-metaphorical basis, to a rising disinterest in sugary cereal. I've been without cereal for a few months. I know what it's like. You start to feel powerful. You start to feel in control of yourself. You start wearing collar shirts. You start seeing the big picture. You start holding in farts instead of letting them out because you care more about your image than everyone else's good time. You start not having laugh attacks. You start talking in cliches. You start what you can't finish. You start the engine and I'll pop the hood and take a look.
Even knowing all this, I can't prevent it. I can't help but turn into another serious person self-proclaimed philosopher douche bag. The decision is out of my hands. As pointless as it is to ponder my existence, it's equally pointless to do anything else. It's like I've been thrown in a padded white room with nothing but a box of legos that have all the nubs shaved off so they don't stick together. Of course I'm going to play with them, but I'm not going to put much effort into it because everything's going to fall apart anyway. And it's only a matter of time before I start screaming, "Can I get some snacks in here?" And a flap opens and a Snickers bar falls out. And I suck the chocolate off and use the honey to stick the legos together. And I feel incredibly clever with myself, but at the same time, I also feel incredibly lonely that nobody is there to see me my awesome nougat lego tower.
On a more serious note, do you think that in colonial days, you could buy village insurance? Like.. in the case where your village burned down, they would give you a settlement.
Last updated August 23rd, 2010