Free Writing

There’s Probably Not a Lot of Meaning Left in the World Now But at Least I’m Not Single

There’s probably not a lot of meaning left in the world now but at least I’m not single.

Growing older, causes may die, races may be run, and the thirst for high adventure may be quenched, leaving just a musty old room filled with empty space where youthful dreams once thrived–it’s admittedly depressing and picture-perfect suicidal at times–but at least I’ve got a girlfriend.

And not to brag about it but just to illustrate my point: I have a totally magnificently bonkers girlfriend who cures all the existential ailments plaguing my being.

Case in point: I would sometimes find myself looking into the distance, pondering what the point of living is but then out of nowhere, she intentionally steps in my line of sight and ruins every deep, dark feeling of mine with her lovely smile and her awesome legs, and suddenly I forget everything about what I was being sad for in the first place. Works every time and it’s great!

I know that might sound like objectification and there’s a chance it is to a large degree but it’s the plain truth, sir, madame.

We may be victims of this oversexualized society but we are not incapable of speaking the truth in our hearts though it might be dehumanizing at times.

But I digress.

I’d honestly hate to be that guy who looks into the abyss without a girlfriend pestering him for a selfie.

Selfies with the girlfriend plug the massive black hole in one’s chest sucking the joy out of the universe (and if you don’t acknowledge you have such a black hole right between your nipples, you are nothing but a sad, lying, booger-digesting gorilla). These selfies may be distractions from the all-too-important internal conversations you have with yourself when you’re alone in your bed in the darkness but at least they’re honest-to-goodness happy distractions. If you’re happy, it can’t be all that bad.

A lot of people would say being happy is the only point of living, in fact. Precisely why some people could survive on porn, video games, and weed–those tried-and-tested packs of happiness that are more or less accessible for every man and woman. And child.

Needless to say, a real relationship is much harder to get, let alone maintain and grow. And that’s why in the grander scheme of the hedonistic scales, a girlfriend is much more valuable by far.

Because if you think about it, a girlfriend is a handy answer to that question that’s always burning in the back of your mind: that question of why the hell you’re even here? Why are you not your dad’s wasted seminal fluid dripping down the bathroom drain? Well, I guess if you’re able to make someone like your girlfriend happy (provided she’s a completely rational individual who makes choices and not in fact just a code you wrote to laugh at your every ill-delivered pun or otherwise a pot of cactus or a piece of scab you named Janet), you must have earned your stay here to some degree, have you not? You’ve got a purpose. You’re not merely your dad’s seminal fluid dripping down the bathroom drain though you might still feel that way sometimes.

Living is much easier with that question quelled. Tragic accidents, such as getting hit by a speeding car while crossing the road, can easily happen when you succumb to existential questions like that in the middle of existing. And the worst thing about such a horrific turn of events is that the newspapers would never say you were actually being philosophical in a mobile manner in that moment; they would only say you got hit by a speeding car because you’re an idiot. Which of course would be a total shame.

Not to say that a lot of mobile philosophers are not idiots because in all likelihood, they are to a large degree.

So the truth is, I’m really sad for all those people who just couldn’t get a girl or a guy or just a sentient humanoid being to care for them back in a completely non-platonic way. And by “non-platonic” I mean you have unholy sex once in a while and your mothers should be ashamed of ever conceiving you. It truthfully is just a total waste of time and resources to be walking this earth without such terrific company.

I know some people say being happy doesn’t require another person, and some would even post those pretty quotes on Facebook, but I call bullshit on that giant tower of stinkin’ dung heap.

Porn, video games, and weed–as good as they are–can only get you so far. Any decent, self-respecting human being would not be content to snort those basest of modern pleasures for the rest of their lives, though admittedly a lot of lives in the history of mankind have been wasted in a lot of dumber and pointless ways. But that’s no excuse.

Not even the healthy options like climbing mountains or painting in water color pastel hues are that much of a difference. The additional health benefits and skills you develop with such hobbies will definitely be appreciated but they can never guarantee peace of mind. Just between you and me, you might be better off with just the porn, but to each his own, I guess.

But seriously, from a guy who’s been through the withering deserts of singlehood for years, please believe me when I say getting a girlfriend as good as mine is absolutely worth it in every way.

Bonus if she also loves you.

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Free Writing

By the End of this Article, You Will Have Learned the Importance of Pancakes

Pancakes

All it takes is one shocking first sentence saying something like men are a waste of precious genetic material to launch everyone’s mind into a routine frenzy. I’m referring to the gender “man” by the way and not the primary species that currently populates the earth. But come to think of it, wouldn’t it be better if we were dogs because dogs are much friendlier to each other, and they’re more diverse so that some dogs don’t look like dogs at all but bears or wolves or rats, and they have much better spontaneous intercourse at the end of which they find it extremely painful to separate–unlike humans who just want to sprint toward the door the moment the deed is done? Considering everything, maybe the world is better run over by dogs.

But how about cats? Cats have the most stupid videos on the Web and they’re able to sell those videos so easily because they’re natural, straight-faced, cold-blooded mofos who are in the middle of a history-long master plan to kill their human owners and take over the earth. At some point, every thought just comes to that: how to rule everything and everyone around you. It’s like it’s hardwired into our brains to plant our flags and leave our babies on every square inch of the universe that would take them. Or even if they won’t take them, we’ll find a way to shove them down their throats because we’re extremely good at forcing our way in and surreptitiously making our way out. But we’re not all bad. We invented hot pancakes smothered in butter and maple syrup, after all.

Pancakes show the good in people. No, you don’t have to watch Schindler’s List to know we’re not too ripe for the culling; pancakes which took thousands of years to perfect illustrate why we should keep on living here without an asteroid the size of Texas bothering us out of our sleepy daydreams and early erections. But don’t worry because the whole point of progress anyway is minimizing risks: including reducing the risk of annihilation-by-asteroid to virtually null. Think about it. Calendars were devised long ago to predict the seasons, so that crops can be grown without nasty floods destroying all of that tribe-nourishing food, and computers were built to avoid costly errors by alcoholic accountants whom their loved ones left because they only loved math and alcohol, which may be the same thing at the core. Every bit of development we have achieved and aim to achieve has one ultimate goal: reduce the risk of living.

Which is why I firmly believe the very concept of chance is getting destroyed every day. You don’t have to wait for a serendipitous moment nowadays to find the love of your life; there’s an app that will help you narrow down your goals to that one perfect person who was fertilized by their parents to forge your future fetuses with you. Or basically, fuck. Oh there you go, I’ve successfully avoided mentioning that word for three full paragraphs but now I just said it and there’s no turning back. But I found that if you start saying “fuck,” you should certainly make the most out of it because grading sins or unethical behavior is probably done by brackets and saying fuck once is just as good or just as bad as saying it ten or so times but not twenty or thirty times. So fuck it. Fuck my office pantry. Fuck my neighbors’ nightly fight. Fuck Mars, there’s absolutely not a single fucker to be found on it. And fuck the moon, too, we’re not going the fuck back to that fucking natural satellite filled with fucking rocks. Fuck Bin Laden. I can somehow trace all this recent fuckery to his fucked up existence. Fuck the police. And of course, fuck the government for good measure.

All right, now that we’re done with all that cursing and we feel just a little bit more unsalvageable than before, we think of beautiful things. Like love. It’s always best to end something random with love because it’s a force that unifies by glossing over the ugliness of whatever heterogeneous mixture we’re talking about (think about your past relationships and see that I’m right). It’s the one discovery that really matters and the one legacy that our civilization would leave behind that will totally confuse the aliens that will land here on a spaceship in the year 8149. Of course, I’m assuming aliens don’t and won’t have any concept of love because if they do, then that would make them essentially no different from humans; in fact, that would absolutely make them human because love is a uniquely human emotion.

Or that’s what I’d like to believe. Must be the pancakes I ate this morning.

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Free Writing

Yesterday, I Farted About Five-hundred and Forty Times

Please forgive me as I’m about to foray into a vapory territory but rest assured this is not just an extended fart joke. Yesterday, I farted about five-hundred and forty times. I realize this is not a particularly fabulous subject for discussion except the sheer amount of farts I farted, to me, makes it worthy of a fair amount of consideration. Especially since I suspect you’ve been in the same dreadful situation before.

I was with a woman whom I fervently fancy, talking to her about things of small and great consequence, and I enjoyed all our moments together except for the fact that I was farting like a methane factory all the time. She was telling me stories about her friends, fashion, and famous folks on Facebook but all the while, I was letting out flatulence in controlled little pauses so as not to produce a single perceptible whistle…

Fetid gas with unfriendly intent made their flight to freedom from the fissure in my buttocks in freakish frequency.

Needless to say, the task of keeping the fascinating conversation going while producing something unfragrant and maintaining a smiling facade was extremely difficult. I could imagine my little rectal muscles flexing its fibers to keep the floodgates of feces from forcefully erupting in a frightful flash of fustiness.

It was farcical how much effluvium I fielded. A whole farm of cows firing a symphony of fumes into the sky would have faired no better against me. I fought off the formidable foe in my belly with the ferociousness of a feral feline or a frenzied ferret but it was for the most part, fruitless. I farted as she spoke. I farted as I replied. I farted as she joked. I farted as I laughed. And laughed I did several times for she was a truly funny person with a flawless sense of humor, and as I laughed, I farted even more. I farted while we ate cup noodles and watched videos of people making fools of themselves. I farted fast and furtively, trying to forestall the inevitable. For to fail in front of her was frankly unfathomable.

And it made me wonder how people came to set such lofty expectations on themselves. Forcing out flatus is as natural a physical phenomenon as speaking and breathing yet we have come to regard it with infinite contempt. Wouldn’t it be freeing and far more functional if we’d simply let folks fart as often as they fancied without getting all furious about it? So that instead of me trying to hide the complex digestive processes forming and flowing along my intestines from this female I truly find fetching, I could just let out a fart bomb whenever I felt like it?

But all it is is fable and fiction because the sad and sometimes frightening fact is that public farts are forbidden. As frowned upon as nitpicking your nose, excavating your ear, and poking your nipples in full view of people. Yet I bet all these gestures are hardwired into our brains and have been passed down in the form of firm instincts from an early age when we were all honest apes.

And so as the sun flickered and fell in the sky, I spent the day with her and felt real fine. Frustrated as I was for the frenetic fabrication of fermented fumes in my tummy, and fatigued from fighting off the unfiltered, the truth was that I was grateful that she was there with me. We watched a fairly gratifying flick in the cinema, and there I had the freedom to flat out fill the room with funky air in the cover of thunderous sounds. There was definitely something fortuitous about the whole set up, but what really made me feel fortunate was that she was there beside me having a freakin’ fantastic time.

In those fleeting moments where she guffawed at the buffoonery on screen rather loudly and charming, I found few problems with life. I felt my fat face smile as my heartstrings were fiddled by a force frivolous and flowery–a formless, fragile fairy in a fugly world. So I decided that though my fanny was feverish, I had something fundamentally special that I must hold on to in the irony of a day filled with letting go.

Who cares about the future? I’ll go ahead and have fun in the present. Foul gas in my gut. Her in my mind.

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Free Writing

The Problem is I Don’t Have a Problem–Not Anymore.

Oftentimes I would find myself on the brink of correcting someone on Facebook when they’ve made a particularly idiotic comment, but then just before I hit the Enter button, my hand would stop in mid-air, I’d press backspace, delete the entire thing, and say to myself, “Fuck it. Forget it.”

Something’s definitely amiss. The feeling’s strongest on Sunday mornings when I just want to sit in a chair and stare at garden plants with a retarded smile on my face.

I think the problem is that I don’t have a problem–not anymore. I used to have a collection–a library of problems! When I was younger, I would make a problem of just about everything: my coffee (“It’s too expensive, farmers died for this!”), the watch I wore (“It’s not working but I’ll still wear it because time is an illusion.”), the train (always been a problem that one), somebody’s boyfriend (“He’ll clearly not make her happy!”), rat carcasses on the road (“The perfect symbol for this rotten system!”), my spinster professor (“Projecting our arid sex life and general wish to die on our students, aren’t we?”), and stuff that everybody made a problem of–government and religion.

Those were the days! I could commute to school or to the office without listening to the radio or an “MP3 player” because I would be endlessly entertained by the hubbub of problems in my head. I’d be riding a jeepney and thinking, “Look at all these dead-eyed passengers just wasting away their lives going to and fro their cold cubicles when they could actually make a difference by saying ‘We’ve had enough! We’re crashing this pathetic jeepney into our pathetic buildings and torching our pathetic desks and stealing all the free coffee from the pantry!'”

Used to be I thought of things like that all the time.

I literally had stacks of journals all filled with my problems; they were written in volumes and could have served as an exhaustive catalog of humanity’s issues. The sheer size of the collection indicating the inordinate amount of time spent on such a dark, fruitless, lonesome activity would creep anybody out. My problems on love alone probably filled around three full notebooks. They discussed everything from the difference between love and lust to a theory about love as a disease that needed to be treated, sort of like the flu. They were absolutely fascinating! Because problems are fascinating things when written down or printed on paper, almost like old-school porn magazines. As an aside, it was always better to jerk off on those tattered pages than these gleaming cell phone screens.

But as I said, I don’t have those problems anymore. I wake up and the first thing I think about is not “Am I waking up to the real world or am I just a simulation like in The Matrix?” I wake up these days and I think, “Have I emailed that guy from the sales team yet?” And it’s terribly sad because that is not a problem at all. That’s a minor inconvenience or a daily task that may be bothersome to do but will nonetheless be accomplished that day or at some point in the future.

It’s not a problem.

Or it’s a problem but not a “real” one. It’s fake as hell.

‘Cause to me, real problems don’t necessarily seek answers; most of them have answers that are glaringly evident. Take for example the classic problem of: “Why do people keep on stealing others’ belongings when the world is already going to shit as it is?” That’s a legitimate problem right there and one worth thinking about leisurely while the very life is getting squeezed out of you in the jam-packed train. It can serve as a full-body anesthesia. You could spend an hour and a half looking at the different angles of that problem and trying to beat that voice in your head in a furious schizophrenic debate. That even though the answer is fucking obvious: “People steal because they’re poor as rats and even those who are rich still rob because they want more in this state of things where having more means having a greater fucking life. Having a big house is different from having a mansion is different from having your own freaking building and a private jet is different from controlling the entire country from your bathroom while you’re taking a shit.”

That’s a straight answer but nobody really wants that. It takes the fun away from nitpicking things that gnaw in our brains and our conscience. Straight answers are boring. The real problems are fun because they are never meant to be answered, only repeatedly considered in a semi-unconscious manner, like speaking a calming mantra, or squeezing a stress ball… or caressing your pet cat’s fur.

Something happened along the way–most probably aging–that made me lose all my precious problems. I think the overall lack of elasticity in the skin that produces wrinkles as one gets older extends to the brain, so that your once taut and springy mind progressively becomes soggy. And the physical sogginess of your brain matter is projected on your every view and every emotion such that your default face eventually starts to look like cold, overcooked pasta.

Of course, it could also be that thanks to your hard work and just the macroeconomics of it all (which you really don’t want to think about because you now have the attention span of a teaspoon), resulted in a pay at a level where the act of spending became more satisfying than questioning the ultimate purpose of spending. I mean, goddamn I can spend my wallet empty on Batman action figures without giving a shred of a thought! Who cares what you think of my hobby? Or what Marx would say about Batman? It’s the goddamn Batman for Christ’s sake! The Dark Knight that I deserve and need right now.

Sometimes, I also think it has to do with just being generally battered in love. I have a deep suspicion that love is the costly fuel that drives all goals and motivations in life. You don’t have love, sucks for you, because you won’t be launching any kind of revolution any time soon; instead, you’ll be sitting in a chair looking at garden plants with a retarded smile on your face. It’s not as fun to ponder love anymore and frame it philosophically or in some form of romantic literature when the plain fact is you’re just miserably failing at asking women out. Or outright getting seenzoned on Facebook. Or worse, unseenzoned (girl already posted three times that day about her cute, little puppies but still hasn’t opted to open your message).

And few men would admit it, but I sincerely think that every time a man fails at love or in romantic relationships, the damage is never confined to that space only. Rather, the ripple effects of that text message that was sent to you to tell you you’re a piece of shit that she would never date again touch on all the facets of your life: your work, leisure, morality, spirituality, in the very way your brain serves you the first thought of the morning. So that instead of feeling freshly intellectual when your eyes open, you just feel like you need another shot of Game of Thrones fan theory and a soggy McDonald’s cheeseburger.

I would like to craft a proper ending to this one but you know what? Fuck it. Forget it.

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Free Writing

Date a Man Who Wears Watermelons on His Feet

Date a man who wears watermelons on his feet. Date a man who wears watermelons on his feet instead of shoes, who has problems eating watermelons because he considers the fruit footwear. Date a man who has a fridge full of watermelons and damp feet soaked in watermelon juice.

Find a man who wears watermelons on his feet. You’ll know that he does because he will always have big, green orbs of produce below the ankles–you can’t really miss it. He’s the one who can barely walk because watermelons don’t have a flat surface, the one who makes a weird squishing sound with every step. You see that bloke dragging bits of pink flesh along the street with a swarm of flies behind him? That’s the one. He can never resist sticking his feet into that cold, wet goodness, especially if they are plump and ripe.

He’s the man who doesn’t give a flying squirrel’s ass about your party’s dress code. He’ll wear watermelons for any ocassion. If you take a peek at those poor watermelons, the insides are already brownish slush because the man’s feet work better than a blender. Relax. Sit down. Don’t yell at him or you might receive a watermelon kick to the chest.

Buy him another bunch of watermelons.

Let him know what you really think of Citrullus lanatus. See if he knows the rich history of the fruit first cultivated in Egypt in the 2nd millenium BC, eventually spreading through India, China, Europe, and into the New World. Impress that watermelon-wearing bastard with your knowledge.

It’s easy to date a man who wears watermelons on his feet. Give him his favorite things on his birthday, and that would be… er… Correct. Watermelons. Just go to the nearest grocery store, bring a cart, and dump as many of those giant globes of fructose on his doorstep. Understand that he knows the difference between a ripe and a not-so-ripe watermelon, but by god he’s still going to take all of them because he’s freakishly obsessed with these things a completely normal person would eat.

Doesn’t matter if the fruits don’t fit. He’ll give it a shot somehow.

Wear them with him. If he understands contagious psychosis, he will understand your need to wear watermelons on your feet, too. Behind those twitchy eyes that have obviously been long out of touch with reality lie derangement, delirium, neurosis, and a dormant desire to kill people serially.

Fail him. Because a man who wears watermelons on his feet knows that failure could be a sign of originality. Instead of watermelons, wear coconuts sometimes or… I don’t know… cantaloupes. You can also probably wear pineapples as gloves and… and wear a papaya bra or something.

Why be frightened of using fruits as articles of clothing? Men who wear watermelons understand that there’s nothing to fear. Except early onset of rot.

If you find a man who wears watermelons on his feet, keep him close. When you find him up at 2 AM, in the dark, carving up a fresh one out of the fridge and weeping, blend him a glass of fruit juice and hold him. You may lose him a couple of hours as he takes a stroll around the neighborhood in his pyjamas and watermelons but he’ll always come back to you. He’ll talk as if the watermelons are people, because for a while, they always are. To him.

He’ll propose to you while you’re in the bathroom taking a shit. Or during a serious meeting in the office. Or in a funeral. Because he’s fucking nuts.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why you never thought of wearing watermelons on your feet before. I mean–whoever said we should wear animal hide around our soles, anyway? Sounds as random as wearing watermelons, really. He will introduce your children to other lunatic stuff like a banana dog on a leash or a berry aquarium. At that point, the sky’s the limit to craziness you’d both be surprised you haven’t murdered each other yet during a particularly violent hallucination-filled episode.

Date a man who wears watermelons on his feet because you deserve it. You deserve a man who can give you the most abnormal life possible. If you only want common boot or loafer-wearing folk, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a man who wears watermelons. On his feet.

Or better yet, date a man who wears vegetables.

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Free Writing

Someday I Want to Be a Burdensome Old Man

My recent string of sicknesses has renewed my commitment to living a long life. But the goal is not merely to lengthen my existence for the sake of it like a deluded hermit. See, there’s this image in my head that I just love: me sitting at a table surrounded by dozens and dozens of my children and grandchildren, all bearing a resemblance to me in varying degrees, all waiting to get my blessing for something, all waiting to say their polite pieces to the “godfather”–the head of the clan.

But it’s not even the power or the prestige I’m after. I’m really just aiming to be the biggest, wrinkliest, most annoying burden the whole family has to bear with in every single gathering.

I just want to shoot sharp disapproving looks at everyone. And I mean everyone. I wouldn’t care if you managed to snatch the top spot in the bar exams or got a supermodel to be your wife, you’ll get the same grouchy disapproving look from my face–the same exact look your suicidal, junkie cousin gets.

Oh I would have the time of my life, just wearing a patented steel frown like Robert De Niro and muttering horrific curses under my breath without stopping. Sometimes my poor children and grandchildren would be able to catch some words when they take my hand to kiss it or press it to their foreheads; memorable words like “moron” and “idiot” and “clown” or “wench.”

I’d be carrying a trusty wooden cane, so I could snappily hit the little ones on the butt if their horsing around gets within two meters of me. They’ll shriek and bawl for mommy and daddy, and mommy and daddy won’t get anything from me but my go-to advice to “Discipline your stupid child!”

Cane would also be handy when poking someone rather painfully in the kidneys if they block my view of the TV.

On the buffet table, I’d take scandalous amounts of everything and then make it a point to eat only about 7% of my plate, all the while complaining loudly about the taste and my false teeth, which would keep on falling into the soup bowl with a plop.

That would be nice. Spoiling everyone’s appetite before they’ve had their fill and just making the table generally awkward for the hapless, brave souls who happen to sit there. And then I’d be munching the food in my mouth in that irritating way old people process their food, and spitting some of it unceremoniously onto the plate or napkin for everyone to see.

Nobody would get any real positive encouragement or sound advice from me. I’d always be comparing them to some long-dead celebrity or famous person I knew or remember from the good old days when the world wasn’t overrun by “wimpy dumbasses (my favorite catch-all term).”

Of course my life would be the golden standard for everyone, and I would happily replace the majority of it with amazing tales of impossible feats you couldn’t possibly match. “I used to sell little goldfish in the streets until I had enough money to buy a luxury car” or “Once, I got lost in the woods for 5 months and I only ate earthworms to survive. When they found me, I was wrestling a wild boar to the ground, which I proceeded to gut alive with my teeth.”

I’d remember each and everyone’s name but I would see to it to switch it with another one just to get the message across that their existence doesn’t mean squat to me. “Oh you’re not Rachel? Who are you?” “Megan. Rachel died 7 years ago, pops.” “Oh really? Tsk. Everyone dies soon enough.”

And then of course I’d do ridiculous things when I’m in the middle of the crowd, like letting my trousers fall, or kicking the cute dog everybody loves, peeing on the bonsai, “accidentally” crashing against some kid’s artsy school project he’s been working on for weeks, sitting on the cat, tasting the cake’s icing and eating all the flowers before a picture has been taken, dropping an expensive vase (Oops!), and constantly spitting the stickiest balls of phlegm to the floor.

My family would hate me so much they would jokingly wish among themselves that I die a horrible death, but I would disappoint them every freakin’ year because I just won’t. I’d be there, wasting away, little by little until only skin and bones remain but nevertheless, I’d still be there. Still whispering insults about the adults and scaring the snot out of the little ones.

Personally, I think it’s a beautiful goal to set for myself. I better work on it now.

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Free Writing

I Write This With Absolutely No Agenda.

Let me start by clarifying that I write this with absolutely no agenda, no hidden motives, no ulterior plan to advance myself or my interests. You know how other people would say one thing and actually mean another? Say, they’ll praise what you’re wearing while actually highlighting what displeases them about it, so your friends can see it clearly and snigger in their heads—that’s what this piece is not.

See, I stick to the truth like a hardened nose gum on a bed post. When I talk about things, I describe them objectively with a dogged tenacity to uphold positivism. There are no gray areas with me or any room for suggestions, allusions, and metaphorical expressions of the like. When I use figures of speech, such as in the opening sentence of this paragraph, I use them to aid elucidation and not hint on another latent meaning, which the reader should unlock in order to unravel the true purpose of the writing. I consider such a task terribly tedious and a tragic turn in literary culture. Though, I must say, I do not care at all about literature because literature is basically a socially exalted exercise in lying. In fact, I literally mean everything that I say and mean them in a very limited way with a clearly defined scope.

There’s no beating around the bush, ignoring the elephant in the room, or walking on eggshells with me. I don’t avoid the real subject at hand or try to deceive the audience by discussing misleadingly. Satire is not in my vocabulary—only science.

This is who I am, writing or speaking—even in nonverbal actions. When I engage in an activity, I do it just for the sake of doing it without trying to follow leaps of logic that would necessarily give me new angles and opportunities to criticize it in the larger scheme of things or from a fresh perspective. For example, when I drink coffee in Starbucks, I drink it for the sole purpose of digesting caffeine and enjoying the multiple ways sugar is used in the concoction. I never think of anything else regarding my purchase or the company that sold it to me.

This is precisely why, I believe, my friends appreciate my company because they can rely on me to convey information without bias. So if one of my friends asks me, “Does this dress make me look fat?” I tell them nonchalantly, “Yes, visually, that dress, brings attention to the roundness of your body and tricks the eye to make you seem even larger than you truly are.” That or “No, it does not.” But it makes no matter if he or she is my friend, an acquaintance or a total stranger. I treat everyone the same.

Unlike others, my Facebook posts are void of vagueness and are crisp in clarity. “Busy day in the office,” I’d post or “The boss spends around 4 hours every day watching YouTube.” True, my propensity to talk only in facts gets me in a bit of trouble quite regularly and encourages people to call me negative things like “an obnoxious socially incompetent know-it-all” or a “sociopath in the making” but it hasn’t stopped me from being who I am. To behave otherwise would be a betrayal of not just myself but the Truth.

For if a man only speaks in undeniable facts, then isn’t it true that he stops being a man? He becomes not just the symbol of Truth, but its very mouthpiece—and thus, Truth itself. Let me use another metaphor here to illustrate the point: isn’t the Word of God not only a means of divine expression but God Himself?

And from where I’m standing, I can see how people have miserably failed in walking the narrow but just path to total neutrality and impartiality. Everyone aside from me is double-tongued, two-faced, self-serving, and a liar through and through. Some have even so thoroughly gotten into the habit of misguiding others that they have effectively fooled themselves. But I do not judge their ultimate worth, only their capacity to be different from me.

Yes, I truly am convinced—no, I assert—that I am the Truth. No bullshit.

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