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The Ant Ate My Booger

The Ant Ate My Booger

By Coby Forrester

Copyright 2016 Coby Forrester

Shakespir Edition

 

The Ant Who Ate My Booger

 

Material Existentialism for The Future

 

A philosophy for a false transcendence that feels real.

 

Introduction

 

It tickles me to give an introduction while thinking about Hegel’s feelings about prefaces to texts. If one is not familiar he comments that a preface can be summarized as something which summarizes. What’s the point of the rest of the text if the summary already summarizes the rest? If the conclusions of a text are synthesized well enough in the preface than there is absolutely no reason to go forth and read the rest of the text! So if you don’t have the time to read all of this, my project can be described in a few simple sentences which I have left in the following paragraphs.

Capitalism has done me wrong and I am a gay man. I think the mind is a stupid and dangerous concept which must be immediately obliterated. I aim to abolish this distinction between mind and body by heightening the process and products of the body. The understanding of ourselves must be radically redefined if this earth and its things are going to retain any dignified trait one hundred years from now. It was my religious belief and consequently my religious break-away that being gay is a physiological trait. For me to continue my existence God in my mind had to die. What other things must die for me to exist under the contemporary condition? On another note horrifies my unconscious psyche to think that my attraction to men is a result of a distant father and a cold mother. I had to exist against the morals of my upbringing which meant to me that all morality was called immediately into question. This single trait had the power to destroy me or to alter the nature of the external the second my gay self came to disrupt all of capitalism.

I have taken this physiological trait and turned it into a philosophical tool which functions like a coarse goalless sandpaper used to criticize modern society and its troubles. The result is sawdust from my manic mission to validate everyone’s physiological response to capitalism. I simply point out that there are more essences to people than being gay and have asked myself what other existing essences are being repressed by the modern condition? What sort of things arise from this repression of the physiological? I believe quite literally that capitalism is a gay man that has decided to have a wife and children only to erupt in a dissatisfied divorce when the mid-life crisis hits. If anyone is qualified to comment on the nature of repressed essence it is me. I have merely taken one essence that of a repressed potential identity and reduced it to a drive. What other drives are there? Are we repressing them? Is this why people shoot up schools and throw babies off from roof tops? Why does a gay man commit suicide after all? I answer none of these questions in this text directly. These questions just give some sense to the type of questions I have asked myself which resulted in this project. A project which is a type of experiment which produced a darkly humorous philosophy sprung from a wanna-be philosopher.

From all of these questions I have concluded that there are essences but essences are without a goal. Essences merely come against the physical qualities of the external world which places various forceful pressures upon them. What is the result? What does it look like? Essentially I want no responsibility for my mental problems or my neurotic patterns. I externalize all blame and consider any writing a result of a me filtering the pressures of the external. I am wholly dependent on the doldrums of the external to produce this text and I resent that dependence. If anything good has come from this I no longer hold anyone else responsible for their neurotic manifestations knowing that they too like myself have been determined in their filtering of the external.

I don’t believe I am going to change any time soon nor do I suspect that the rest of society will wake up as a result of my writing. That would be an unrealistic goal. If my position were to be summarized I would call it a hard material determinism with existential sympathies and existential regrets. I’m a tragic comedy built on the foundation of an ironic oxymoron. I like to sound redundantly fancy so I can feel I have transcended the limitations of my working class past while simultaneously understanding it was inevitable and makes a great deal of sense given resulting patterns.

Other than through small changes I am blissfully unaware of in the present, I consider myself perfectly and delightfully fucked up. I was raised with working class values which meant I was spanked as a child for trivial things and my brother thought it was alright to point a gun at my head to get me to stop singing. This among some other class values which I unrealistically hope to demolish by the time I die. This is a project that I shall continue in another text which reflects on my nude modeling aspirations.

In short I hate capitalism. This text is a peak at what capitalism has done to us and more importantly what it has done to me. Look I’m a weak working class gay man. I’ve written a powerful text worthy of God’s praise but I don’t believe in God! I have accepted determinism but am not a Nihilist who committed suicide. What’s going on here? I was raised like a feral child in the forest and I demand a type of egoistic recognition for what will likely be perceived as a mediocre accomplishment. It is not a mediocre accomplishment. I have already anticipated this reducation and have literally reduced my text to the metaphor of a shit-thing. I equate writing to poop. It is a sort of natural process for me and other people make other things which are also like poop. They call it creativity, others call it digestion.

I have confidence issues so I overcompensate by presenting myself as someone who understands existentialism or dismisses my understanding as a coping mechanism for my lack of authority on the matter of many of craps. I don’t understand existentialism, I interpret it. I apply it to my own life by rejecting it as something which has been dangerously and crudely applied to our daily lives and our daily application of it. I’ve read some Heidegger and think philosophy professors are a bit pretentious when they look over obvious implications of class warfare in Heidegger’s essay “The Work of Art”. This text I’ve produced mocks philosophy, philosophers, science, and most importantly it throws a bombshell into the contemporary understanding of ourselves and the way millennials and adults go on resisting their bodies’ till death. I’m a philosophical humorist who posits that the mind is dead, the self is dead, but essence is still alive. Essences do things in relationship to the external. In one sense the project has already been done by folks like Deleuze and Guitarri but with a more complicated approach. I would like to think my work is more accessible at times. It moves between a more straight forward essay styles about alcohol, porn, coughing, and pooping to more lyrical stories about garbage, ants, cute men, and the objectification of lived life. This text is largely about our bodies, there differences, and the ability to cope.

I’m actually driven to get to one hundred pages with Courier New twelve point font so I thought I would reflect a bit on this strange text I have produced from fragments of my college journals. I have again sacrificed my body to produce a body of writing thinking that I was a genius. One can sacrifice their body for capitalism, for art, for philosophy, for sins, for love, and so on and so forth. I can’t tell if one effort is more worthy than the other. While I have produced and edited a pile of journals that resulted from a reluctance to work in the real world while studying philosophy in the spring, summer, and fall of 2015 it is hard to say that I have succeeded in transcending anything at all. I’ve merely pointed out the tragedies of the modern day by making myself live as the best particular example of the modern condition.

Through a constant analysis of myself and through reflection on myself and others I have followed the very trajectory of “my development” under the conditions of modern capitalism. I have seen the same traits express themselves in others and have only dramatized them in my own life to make a mockery of it. In believing that the following essays marks the condition of modern society I wanted to find a way to validate the very thing I hated and resented so much. I made the conscious choice to live it knowing very well how evilly unfulfilled it was. This lifestyle came to the height of its self-destructive quality in September of 2015 when I attempted suicide via alcohol poisoning and my friends who valued my existence for whatever reasons saved my life. My awareness had become deadly because by living it I proved to myself what I already knew it to be intellectually. When I realized that my project had completely got out of the boundaries of my own moral compass and was more destructive to others than productive I started to pull back the reigns and came to face reality on the more boring terms of the common person. I’ve come to understand capitalism as literally irresistible. To survive, I’ve had to accept the “plastic” dildo of Capitalism in my ass. My prostate finds it quite enjoyable when I loosen up and relax a bit.

 

What We Have Become: A Personal Example

 

Writing is a lot cheaper than alcohol as a means to escape existence. Hard liquor goes well with a bit of truth. I may go out and purchase some truth if inspiration is lacking. Along with this drink goes the equally dangerous notion that truth is as Socrate’s states it in the Symposium, “A bright incomprehensible light.”

With Nietzsche comes another notion, “Why even care about the truth at all?” This notion of truth being a nothingness, a void, etc is just as absurd as it being a thing in itself. In all of this time we’ve had two types of truth. A void to fill with it and matter which already had it. The two are not mutually exclusive. Truth does in fact exist as a type of bubbling matter which exudes from traits within objects. The trouble is that truth often relates to frequently unstable qualities. Truth is inherently neurotic. Good, anyone can have a stab at it, even a psychopath. This instability is emphasized in Eastern thought but their response to impermanence is to shrivel away from it. So long as people think entirely of the thing of itself, disregard essence all-together, or only focus on the transitory nature of objects in shock and awe, there will be nothing but folly in the lifestyles that extend from these responses.

Our existence is immediately too short for truth to be pinned down entirely but this doesn’t mean it should be abandoned all together. Meaning would render itself moot if we were to become robots. But it is easier if meaning would be sacrificed and everyone admitted to a world without essence. This is precisely the predicament here in the 21st century and what a wreck it shall be if we continue on this way. The existentialists were picked up and used haphazardly by the masses in exactly this way. In an odd way Nihilism has become a fashionable way of life. It was not only foreshadowed, but openly embraced by the melancholic and dissatisfied group now referred to as the millennials. The one’s that are aware of it are even worse off than the one’s who aren’t.

When existence is before essence there are a whole slew of problems that arise. Now that essence has been done away the robot has mechanically galumphed forward into existence. The problems as experienced on their surface seem harmless and Nihilism is so popular because it’s much easier to exist than to make the attempt at asserting one’s own essence against the tremendous powers of the external world. For example being gay or a woman in a patriarchal world. Or being trans in a world that doesn’t have a narrative for one’s physiological disposition. Or on a more extreme level a peanut allergy in a world filled with peanuts. I’m afraid that is precisely what we are becoming.

Fortunately the body that is now programmed as a robot is still equipped with the same delicate balance of irrationality and disequilibrium. A robot would be too intelligent to submit itself to the nonsense people do. It would resist more abhorrently than any physiological being. We have not become a complete machine yet. The possibility still remains. The robot, being without emotion would be entirely rational and rationality leads us to a state of ascetic immobility. There is something very appealing to the human psyche about being a robot. No eating, no emotions, just bursts of rational productivity. A world without desire is nearly a perfect world. But it is paradoxical because there would be no desire to do anything at all. Maybe this paradox is necessary.

To avoid the establishment of a pure robot, which is near impossible as human irrationality is required for the function of the machine, a person should allow themselves to do what it is they themselves want to do. Most people, apart from psychopaths or various anomalies outside the “normal” human range of experience, want to do nice things. They want to garden, sew, or help people, pick flowers, paint, and play the piano. They want to go skiing or sledding, skating or boarding. They want to do many harmless things and the very least that should be done is to create the conditions necessary for such an existence. Most of these conditions become incapable of achieving in their ideal sense and the worst torture is when a person who wishes to do something isn’t allowed the resources to do so but must work a great deal to have a few moments of happiness. This sadomasochism is the new attack on people. It is much more complicated and clever than slavery as it separates the consumers from the producers and the producers from the manufacturers. By producers, I mean child labor.

This notion rests on the assumption, with modest empirical evidence, that death itself is better than life. People are now responsible for killing themselves at will instead of having a master do it for them and kindly enough the psychologists and doctors say “it’s depression” and “there’s nothing that can be done about it”. This is an obvious repressive strategy on a mass scale. It is a way to deny that this design must be radically reconsidered. Whether a murderer goes to heaven or hell or just exists in darkness hardly matters to me. What matters is whether or not these murders have some reasonable drive. In one regard the murderer has gotten what they deserved and in another they’ve been given a better life so long as they actually committed the murder as well as asked for forgiveness in the Christian circumstance. And if perpetual darkness were the result, that too would end in peace.

Sometimes my brain reminds me of an untamed forest, while I have the potential for refined beauty, the peace that overcomes me when surrounded by a snuggle of twigs, ferns, limbs, and branches reminds me of that beauty and reflects the peace of nature. I also have to accept that this lack of refinement will not be much appreciated by my readers but like the forest I am very misunderstood as to its own nature. Not even I can comprehend myself and my fleeting thoughts, which were two moments ago a dedicated mission to prove something to an external order, have trailed off into another limp limb. I need to continually remind myself that I exist for no other reason than myself and that very little will come of me if I try to impress someone other than myself. If someone were to ask me if I were impressed with myself, I would undoubtedly say yes.

This privacy protects “It” from criticism and my already perceived lack. I am perfectly content to burn all of my misery to ash and nothingness to show that what truly counted was sitting down to figure it out, laboring, day after day, producing not knowledge for others, not even knowledge in itself entirely, but knowledge of myself, about myself, and for myself. Some people like to skateboard because that is what they enjoy. I like to write and it is easy for me to forget about the glory and use of solitude. It is nice to write oneself down for sake of referring back to not a former self, weaker self, or something which was not fully developed, but a self which was all together different. It wasn’t just an accident which transformed the former presence to the now, nor was it some type of historical moment which projected the objective obsolete onto the canvas. It was some paradoxical event which perplexed the ant as it attempted to cross the infinite space at its halfway point. How does it get there? I am not a mathematician. A point which was too early for any type of certainty to retain its validity. Yet in being early and naïve, validity presented itself. Things like this just are even as they are changing. And I am certain philosophers of the past were just as neurotically insecure as myself when they stated their declarative statements only to have their trails cleared away by the next snowfall or overcome by a wild forest. After all, traffic must be on its way.

In uncertainty I frequently default to obvious silliness in that perhaps confidence is actually a thing. A possibility or fact. I could, in all neurotic sincerity, propose a deliberation on the matter but I have already concluded that the quality of confidence which is consistent depends on uncertainty and the lack thereof. Confidence has always appeared to me as arrogant stupidity. I hate a person who is confident because they are unwilling to work hard for the truth a second, third, fourth, fifth time onto infinite. They are unwilling to let go of the current truth and they fail to question what they know again. Truth about any old matter, like faith, requires the questioning of trivial day to day assumptions such as statements like “he is an idiot”. What does it mean to say that the whole being of a person is an idiot when they can still in the very least bake cookies or hold some charming skill? It’s challenging, it is the true test of all statements.

The most arrogant of people in my life are painstakingly stupid. This too is folly as it rests on an assumption about experience. I have no way to measure stupidity in an objective sense other than how I feel about certain people, it is merely an irritation. It is something worse than a buzzing mosquito when one tries to sleep because at least I can allow the bug to suck my blood a little, get its proboscis into my skin, get stuck, and smack, it’s dead. I can’t do that with an arrogant person who is stupid. I have to respect where they are coming from. I’d rather smack them. Then, a person like Nietzsche who is quite bright also holds the quality of arrogance. I think my problem rests in the belief that I am stupid despite the fact that I compensate for it with the presence of books and many paintings and writings.

More irritating than this is when people look at my appearance and listen to the way I speak and claim I am smart based on these superficial symbols which construct the image of an intellect. I want to respond by saying, “I haven’t said anything at all. You didn’t even read anything from my journal. What you mean to say that I appear smart or that I said a smart thing? What’s smart about it? There is nothing about saying a thing that you didn’t know before which makes me smarter than you. You could for example know a great deal more about a lot of topics or just a lot about one topic and either way you could still be smarter than I am. I am not smart because of a few words and a few books. I’m merely desperate to appear intelligent and knowing this about myself it irritates me a great deal when people conclude that I am smart because of a few arbitrary objects I carry around.”

This is why I want to be seen and accepted by academia. I want to conquer it so I have the official proof of my intellect stamped by an institution I already see to be superficial. There is no way to measure intelligence objectively and subjectivity is always a measure of how similar two people are wired. I say this person is smart because we happen to agree about a great deal of things or they have helped me with something I was not knowledgeable about. I say this person is stupid because they disagree a great deal about these things and they do not take interest in the things I am knowledgeable about. We are wired with certain biological qualities which attempt to separate ourselves from our own biology so we can go about our day sayin, “I am this” or “I am definitely not that”. How absurd and without any reference to the scientific authorities which give me such an frustrating fact of life.

I have lived an absurd existence after all! If for whatever reasons I live past tomorrow I must promise myself to no longer take a darn thing seriously. I mean I had to fight just to get a signature on a pile of ridiculous papers all over a mishap over the words “internship” and “volunteer”. I cannot for the life of me see any difference between the two. One has a false sense of sophistication while the other one denotes a type of desperation for meaning. I will leave it up to the reader to decide which description pertains to what.

For a bit of time I wanted self deprecate myself over not writing in my journals as they are the only thing which isn’t completely vacuous like these terms “internship” and “volunteer”. I can’t say I would have much to write about had everything external to me dissolved. It poses a paradox. If there weren’t so much trouble in the world the desire to write may fall away entirely and all that would be left for me is pure bliss. A bliss that closely followed every invention of my overactive mind.

While it is completely mad to pursue a degree in philosophy I am starting to think I am much closer to this than I am any sort of practical degree such as Sociology. Sociology has completely depleted my energy with its internship requirement. There is not a bone in my body which desires to partake in the senior seminar design. It is pure torture to anyone who falsely partakes in it. Perhaps everyone is false and if I see that I might as well expose myself as the mad person I am and pursue one of the most economically impractical degrees there are: Philosophy.

I could still make me money in an abstract sense given that the study of the absurd and the notion of simplicity are precisely what makes the action possible. So tomorrow I just pursue what it is I wish to be today. But today, I will masturbate and eat cake. There is no rush to be a philosopher. It is only learning logic which poses a threat to me in terms of it being a practical thing. And what if they don’t allow me to pursue this as an option for some crappy reason? What shall I do then? Masturbate and eat cake! Who knows! Who cares! After age one, a person as estranged as myself comes to accept loneliness. If a person is built to get pass the pangs of a daily desire toward suicide that spring forth in one’s early teens and last well into their twenties they begin to laugh at it all and poke fun because there is sometimes nothing better to do. Great suffering has the power to knock oneself down on their ass and such. When suffering is contemplated properly the external, with all its absurd paradoxes and impractical demands, becomes exposed. I am here to open the hood of a car that I know very intimately. Then sitting here laughing at it, it becomes something manageable. I hear the gears which crunch wrong and I can reach in and tweak it a bit. I can make the motor run right but an engine made with broken human parts is much more difficult to repair than a clunky junker. A broken psyche on a mass scale is much more difficult to rewire. It’s easier to make a mass pile of new babies and manipulate that play-dough until it reaches its desired form.

Looking inside is like falling in love with some cute man with the name of madness. I love madness, not myself. The world is not innately mad but designed to be so even though it immediately appears to the observer as still clunking along. “It’s an old car but it was made in the 1700s and with a few jimmy rigs here and there I can make it last another few hundred years.” Psychologists sound like my uncle when he talks about fixing up a tractor, “Well you know, day in, day out, plowing the field.” He says he’s happy doing it. Can’t deny someone saying they’re happy. It’s their happiness right over there in the field.

Any child raised in this machine that makes it pass the age of three is mad or has learned and experienced the madness of life. I am no longer depressed. I am sad for good reasons. Depression is no longer a legitimate term for me. Sadness is legitimate as it has explanations. Sometimes when the engine breaks down there are all too often no options all together. And in my situation there are many options but some that are just not as practical as others. While switching my major to philosophy is entirely absurd, requiring a full year of commitment to the study of pure nonsense, nonsense in its most objective form, it is practical because it is a matter of authenticity and living organically.

Even false lifestyles are organic when one evaluates its ontological sources. Organic is a transparent topic. “I’m organic therefore capitalism is sustainable because my eggs don’t come from that type of capitalism, they are this other form of capitalism.” I ask the question to vegans and organic people, “Did you raise the chicken, slaughter the chicken, feed the chicken? Sure a few less chemicals but. . .” It’s a step in a different direction but it isn’t better or worse. It’s just another limb.

Transparency may unfold the parts of the organic evaluation, process. What have you and the components of me-ness, you-ness, and the locness monster. This messiness is a bit fragmented at times. Hard to pin down all its organs so I can collect the proper literary data. Literary data likes to wiggle around like a fish out of water. I was raised a fisherman, I would know what hooks do to fish. Fish are very truthful creatures but people don’t like to answer truthfully when they suspect I am placing them under my interrogation light. It’s best to let the situations arise organically so I know exactly what pieces of evidence I can use to put the puzzle together. The puzzle is missing most of the pieces like the one from the fifteen hundreds or so but I get a glimpse now and then. This technique is enough to convince some of its truthiness.

To go further and buy into it its study is quite humoring for me. A working class gay boy who was abused as a childhood goes to Germany to study philosophy. It’s absurd. It couldn’t have happen even twenty years ago! They weren’t even letting books pass through the airport at that time! Anything that gives me humor by means of posing its seriousness in opposition to my lack-there-of is worth looking into. The second anything is taken seriously it becomes too dangerous for me to play with. A candle cannot burn down a house if one takes it seriously. I like a bit of flare inside of me now and then. I like to burn down the house but one must be tedious about finding how these nuances legitimize themselves or even if it is worth the time to point to them and say to the person next to you, “do you see that constellation”? Those arrangements of facts generate an abstraction agreed upon by two separate parties. If we add this chemical and tweak the epinephrine we might get a whole new star system! More often than not the opposing party will agree or nod when in actuality they are thinking about their own trivial location in someone else’s universe. People are unbearably agreeable because they want to partake in a world of subjectively generated facts that everyone plays along with. Most of us are dull enough like myself to continue believing the nods and seldom do I rearrange myself enough to partake in perfect accordance in someone else’s world. The possibility of mothering is only possible if perfection by all organs cannot be achieved. It is easier and more psychologically rewarding to demolish the liver by means of logistics applied to subjectivity than to just eat the foreigner’s ethnic dish and smile as it were.

Politeness will always prevail over rationality, justice, circumstance, or truth. Politeness is the means towards remaining blind and it is wholeheartedly inorganic. It’s a means to derive resources and the second one no longer plays the game resources can be very easily removed. One could easily say this is all very natural! Everyone and everything is natural and leave it at that. Even leave it alone all-together to its own demise or satisfaction. Stating everything is natural leaves the grimm option of having nothing left to say about anything at all. It’s a Nihilistic claim to justify all as “natural” and leave it at that. The human is insatiably curious and it’s just as annoying to say “it is natural” as stating that essence no longer exists. Why god dammit I am natural in a way the majority of other people aren’t natural! That makes me fucking unique and I like that about myself. I’m not natural. I’m a freak and I accept that about myself. I don’t want to be natural.

It isn’t the fact that we can be explained mechanically which depresses the human spirit. When told the mind is a trivial byproduct of the ugly green potato salad appearance of our brains a type of freedom emerges. “If it happened this way it was suppose to happen. It was determined.” The fear of this explanation would destroy the possibilities and there would exist the problem, “of having anything left to say at all”. Humans have been equipped with wanting to say things and going so far as to believe there is an infinite amount to say and maybe there is! The resistance to the development of the human robot comes from this fear of having no need to say anything anymore because all that has been said has been said.

So, tomorrow will come as it always does in its overdose of bitter syrups which induce existential vomits which only wish to tell the body to take a nap or read a book, or paint a picture. To go do something. Fill time and space with the body and the motions of being in a body. It’s not to ignore or entirely escape the invented needs of the other but to on the sidelines not take so seriously the order of their parts. They merely clunk along and stress out over these trivial details. They even have large and bitter arguments about things such as which direction the toilet paper in the restroom should be hung. We have been pushed into these things only to pay for them in the currency of guilt. I am not at fault for these ridiculous conventions and can do anything and everything I have ever wanted to do without any type of second guessing myself. I am entirely tired of second guessing myself. I wish to do everything it is I wish to do.

But, fear, forever fear. Okay so here is the deal. I can’t sleep. Not because I am neurotically agitated by some deep problem of existence, but because existence keeps on convincing me that it is some type of serious thing which should be taken as such.

Awe, yuck, a glimpse into my personal life, a rare sight into the ugly dynamics of my insignificant existence. If I could only convey poetically how disgusting that cliché sounds to me. If we state the indifference of nature than the nature side of our objective experiences also become indifferent. The problem is that our bodies produce meaning, and how can a meaningless hunk of stupidity spring forth the perpetual curse of consciousness? Goodness, it is as though the awareness of being is magnified in myself like a child burning an ant on a hill with a magnifying glass. My existence is like a sunbeam magnified onto its own self. I’m certain Kierkegaard said this somewhere and that is why I walk around with my mouth agape like Fromm said I would. Or maybe I am the reincarnation of Kierkegaard. It burns but how could it correspond to any concrete object in the practical sense? The body begins to tire out after a time. There is insomnia which is produced by computers and increased use of light sources. How could this much insomnia exist without the constant ability to burn our retinas with light sources? Maybe we just want to live. Maybe we just wanted to have light twenty four seven to enjoy more of our lives, not demolish it with the burdens of the workplace. Yes, that’s it! Insomnia can only be a desire to extend life beyond the work place yet we want to sleep but don’t go to bed for hours even after we state we are tired. What are we doing up? Are we denying ourselves rest because we are wasting away in another regard? In another regard it is obvious we do not want to sleep. We constantly want to live or not live all together, to live desperately thinking about suicide, and not committing it out of hope for something better.

This act of staying up late after one said three hours ago, “I am tired” exposes a lie. This is the desire for a job and/or a career. People spend many hours invested in this and to come home and stay up late, torturing our bodies by depriving them of rest, is only a sign of desperation to live most of our awake hours doing something enjoyable. The most people succeed in is doing something dull. Some people end up believing the lie and start to want the job. They are like a person born lactose intolerant but through force of parental circumstance comes to love milk. For it is a great madness which seems to plague us all across time and space with multiplying ways to resolve it. Or better yet it is like sadomasochistic porn where the producer keeps saying, “Do you want it, or are you just doing it for the money?” Only in porn is it ethically plausible to say, “I’m doing it for the money.” Why is this?

The human wants to be something more than its body. It wants to be something outside of the confines of its material being and yet it cannot escape. It can only alter its reality through drugs, power, money, corruption, and fantasy. I am always seeking a new state of being which is not my own or believing in a range of states which somehow manage to complement one another in becoming a whole self. Most people believe themselves to be proper citizens who are free beings doing good and right in the world. I am not one of those people. I believe most people have no journey and feel like I am stupidly stumbling about as a thing in itself. This apparent difference between myself and others shows itself in trivial everyday circumstances such as when a fat person eats a hamburger in America. In my journal I write, “This fat and stupid America is a beautiful symbol of rebellion. Fatness is a physiological response to stress. For those who have accepted the lifestyle also accept the efficiency of fast food out of necessity, I rejoice fat people. I see in big stomachs and booty a mass rebellion against capitalism. Capitalism requires poverty to sustain itself. Most fat people don’t know this but I do. America has become this fat ill lard dying without healthcare because death is the body’s rebellion against capitalism. All of this death due to heart attacks and cancer. Smoking and bad health is an organic rebellion against the machine. Rejoice the unconscious protest by which people bring suffering upon their bodies through pleasures. It reminds me of Buddhists who burn themselves to protest against wars. Wars caused by imperialist conquest. The unconscious is brought forth by the Buddhist through a symbol. It is a protest in awareness and the “suicidal” burning can be dismissed through the desire the Buddhist has to raise consciousness. For the fat American who dies, their death in protest is unconscious. It is its own form of enlightenment which goes unchecked.”

Many people seem to deny they are a result of the world and its modern circumstance. They go on sniffing, painting, sneezing, drinking, jerking, biking, working, skiing, surfing, pooping, and peeing without stopping to think about what it means to be alive. It must be nice to live like that. Ignorance really is bliss after all. Just like Kierkegaard’s quote, “Ignorance is innocence.”

I don’t want to be the mere result of a grand process which cannot be proven, nor do I wish this for anyone else. I want others to be the result of their own process imposed upon the world. It is a human process that I can only hope exists. Maybe it isn’t a repressed process. Maybe the human process doesn’t exist in some people at all. What a terror that would be!

I want to impose myself bombastically and brilliantly onto the world by creating the world for myself. My hope is that my life’s project justifies this absurd desire to prove that people are meaningful beings despite the overwhelming feeling that existence springs from nothingness. It is just a feeling and I have found proof that rejects nothingness as our ultimate nature.

Without money and power I am like everyone else, a mere nobody. What a relief from the burden of the real world! If I don’t exist, the real world must be a trivial thing to spend my life constantly worrying about. Why haven’t others realized this?

To accomplish this task of raising consciousness I must address the matter from my own perspective which sounds something like this, “I am attached to porn for a different reason than being merely fixated on the power of the pixel. I am attached because it is proof that I felt my sexuality was condemned from an early age. I see compulsive masturbation as the evidence for the abuse I endure. It is also the reward for suffering. If I suffer properly I get access to love and the rewards that come from my sacrifice. It is the direct result of the condemnation of my body and thus refusing to watch porn out of some moral calling seems to be to me a removal of the evidence of this crime we title society. It’s a circumvention of the reward I feel I deserve. I’m a bit of a religious saint this way as I feel like my body is a crime scene. If I tamper with the product of society I will be accused of falsifying information in the courthouse of God. I haven’t found a way out of this conundrum, but I will work on it someday. Right now I want to masturbate and eat a cake but being condemned for all my living years gives me a secure sense of self that I understand.”

“For eight hours a day I know who I am and what I’m about. I wash the dishes, stack the dishes, cut the broccoli, rinse the broccoli, and there for four hours I am. When I get home, porn is comforting because it is easy. I don’t have to confront anything but a gorgeous male body. I don’t have to treat it with any sense of emotional attachment and I don’t think there is anything wrong with my situation other than a very practical one.”

“I can’t get aroused when I try to have hookups. Even the supposed superficial thing becomes impossible for me. I can’t even be superficial. Being condemned was something to fight against. It was the challenge to overcome and yet without it I become meaningless in a sense. I have to enter a self which was of my own choosing, but that self is just as much of a choice as continuing to live without people by comforting my sexual and human bond desires with the admiration of human male beauty. Socially constructed or not I have a type I like and that type is twink porn.”

My fare lady rode the bus today. All anxiety flees like a zombie at the site of glitter fairies when he appears. I thought too seriously about asking him if he had enjoyed the tea I gave him two or three weeks ago. But I didn’t think at all or convinced myself I was thinking better of it. I convince myself now that it was a rational decision to ignore his presence all together. I hoped the bus to be full and only one row of seats for us. Then I thought how nerve racking that would be to sit next to something this beautiful. A twink!I might have to treat it as a someone and then their beauty would begin to fade away at the first words which pertain to internal experience.

***

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The Ant Ate My Booger

A quasi-philosophical experiment in existentialism. Looks at the modern lived life of capitalism and develops viewpoints produced by the modern condition. This existential materialism for the future concludes that essence still remains a key part of the modern condition but the attempt to transcend materialism when successful doesn't always lead to positive results. The attempt to rise above our material condition produces the very criminal effects of capitalism and the subjects that operate under its condition.

  • ISBN: 9781311719690
  • Author: Coby Forrester
  • Published: 2016-06-08 22:05:07
  • Words: 38617
The Ant Ate My Booger The Ant Ate My Booger