Where do I begin?
Picture sitting in a room full of five year-olds who suffer from an unwavering mental disorder: namely, mental retardation. Imagine an obligation to the group of unpromising minds. Surely any attachment to their existence would be an inconvenience, but consider how painful living would be if you were forced to stay within their quarters. Although verbal communication between you and them may be unnecessary, you might dare to speak to the retards facing you out of your natural desire to verbally express yourself. If you opt to take up your inherence, you’d have initiated what you’ll hope to be—in the least—an insidious journey to a tapered avidity for communication. But, this isn’t what will happen if you’re as inquisitive as I am. Instead, you’ll end up waist-deep in questions of your own intelligence, frustrated by the views of the majority, which, in this case, happens to be a flock of children with IQs lower than the years between the Gettysburg address and the written molestation of the Brits by our founding fathers.
You just looked at my life in a nutshell and I’m the only person to blame for this, I bet. Albeit my upbringing, television and the books I was exposed to early on, I’m surrounded by a bunch of idiots because I didn’t put in the work to be where I’m understood.
That’s right: I’m calling everyone who doesn’t understand me idiots. I-D-I-O-T-S. All of them. I’m absolutely sick of it at this point.
No matter how hard I try to explain myself so that everyone is on the same page with me, I’m perplexed by an ass-load of daunting, unruly questions followed by a subjection to ridicule—usually.
If you’ve found my pretentiousness unsavory, I apologize.
If you’ve tried to understand me and gave up, I apologize.
If you think I’m a know-it-all, I apologize.
If you find my tendency to question you disrespectful, I apologize.
And, if you find my general tone condescending, I apologize.
I don’t mean to be rude and I want everyone to know what I’m talking about most of the time. The only time I don’t want someone to know what I’m gettin’ at is when I’m absolutely tired of their small-mindedness and I feel like entertaining myself by inconspicuously insulting their intelligence. Yes, idiot, I’m talking about a satirical engagement of sorts, but instead of telling you simply, I took the more cryptic route for shits as I write this.
If you find the way I express myself stupid, I don’t know what to tell you. How about “fuck you?”
In high school, I was a fucking nut. I had fights, I’ve been suspended, I failed exams and classes, I’ve had arguments, broken bones, undermined a century-old academic infrastructure under the noses of a considerable number of fuckheads—basically the whole nine. I wasn’t the worst student and I wasn’t the best, nor was I some badass everyone feared. I was a misplaced geek, and flagrantly so.
I went into high school a programmer and sketch artist. The first day I got in there, I was ridiculed. It was for the way I pronounced my words. Something so small ended up being what I would later consider a glimpse into a rough high school career. I barely saw any refuge from the first day on—it was Hell day after day. If they weren’t telling me how “white” I sounded every three minutes, they were making fun of how fat I was, and if neither of the former two, they were picking on me for what they found to be a remarkably stupid way of thinking.
It wasn’t just the students either. Administrators would clearly deem me a lost cause, downplaying my advances in the realm of analytical thinking constantly. Sometimes, I’d catch them in the act of defaming me with other students—I’d have the displeasure of catching their consenting eye movements during class as a student openly mocked me; I’d always happen to be nearby a room in which a student is mouthing off about how despicable they found me and the teacher agreeing; sometimes they’re laughing with the student and sometimes not—though, it never mattered.
“What about Thompson?” they’d say, or some variance of it, as if they were using me as a good place to kick off a jovial conversation. I’d usually approach the group and act like I didn’t hear or see a thing, and much of the time, I’d even play into what they viewed me as, saying or doing something completely asinine, like it would somehow steer them in a more favorable direction.
That was counterproductive and I learned that the hard way.
My question is: why was I treated that way right off the bat? I was friendly, I was obviously engaged in scholarly activities, and I was generally a positive guy.
I’ll tell you why, and this is something I should have known from the jump (the beginning; the ultimate point of causation; initialis scaena; the womb…). Here’s where I fucked up and why I was in such a poor situation:
- I got involved.
- I expected everyone to know where I was approaching the world from.
- I wasn’t understood.
Look back at being surrounded by five year-old retards. You wouldn’t have kept yourself around the bunch of you didn’t have to, right? So why did you? You were obligated. Granted, that makes it tough to avoid being involved—you were by default, right? Alright, so you were around them because you had to be. But, then you spoke to the group. You didn’t have to do that. From the point of being placed in that room, you weren’t involved. Picture a layer model (you should understand if you aren’t as stupid as I think you are, but if you don’t, you’ll be approached with an easier explanation in a second, so keep reading attentively—I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt):
State 1: [( You )] AND [( Idiots )]
Action: [( You )] + obligation: [( Idiots )]
State 2: ( [( You )] Idiots )
Action: [( You )] + desire to speak: (Idiots)
State 3: ( [( You ) Idiots] )
State 1: You, in your own sphere of influence, coexist with idiots and their sphere of influence.
Action: You’re subjected to an obligation to associate yourself with the idiots.
State 2: You’re now grouped with the idiots because of your obligation.
Action: You subject yourself to the idiots’ more intricately because of your desire to speak.
State 3: Now you’re in the sphere of the idiots’ influence.
The final state should be obvious: you’re forced to apply at least a bit of the idiots’ reasoning to your own as you review your position because your decisions can be influenced by the idiots at any given moment.
That’s a problem.
Now you have to put your brain through the grinder so that it’s soft enough to fit what you’re trying to place it in. Basically, in order to adequately imagine your constraints, you have to dumb yourself down. That’s a process and it can be frustrating.
So what happened to me? I involved myself with what I didn’t need to be involved with. I shouldn’t have. I spoke to everyone thinking I’d make some friends in the process. And it wasn’t just that: I did this under a completely naïve premise. I actually thought that I could just walk in and attempt to fit in without having surveyed my and my approachees’ surroundings. Moreover, I actually thought that I could communicate with people using only what I was born with, my nature. And that brings me to my next point:
I expected everyone to know where I was approaching the world from.
Firstly, how could they have known? How can anyone? Would you know how the guy standing next to you will see the scorching desert in front of him if both of you were sleep-deprived and had been traveling for days without food? (If he didn’t tell you, you cunt.)
I should have tried to be exactly like the group of people I was trying to befriend. I did at some points. It was a struggle and I’d always find myself in a fight or argument as a result. Most of my fights and arguments would stem from me saying something in the realm of “Wait. That’s not right. Why would you …?” This wasn’t just with my peers; it was with my teachers, deans, and basically whoever I had to converse with.
The reason I felt the need to inquire was simply that I placed myself in position for my views to be countered. If I hadn’t expected that those I was surrounded by considered my opinions as they were, each moment I found their views erroneous, I’d have been more prone to ignoring them to avoid trouble. Because of my negligence in this sense, I suffered a world of trouble being the black sheep everywhere I stepped foot.
And finally, I was where I was because I wasn’t understood, and although this might sound like a stupid point to try to make, it’s something I’ve been struggling with and found to be of great importance.
There’s miscommunication. In high school, there was a bunch of miscommunication I wish there hadn’t been. Too bad this happened to be an inevitability I didn’t know how to come to terms with. Still is.
There will always be a misunderstanding as long as we express ourselves by personally-random articulations. In other words, as long as we communicate by stringing together a bunch of words and actions at will—a process too labyrinthine to perceive—there will be some level of asynchrony between those interacting.
So why not stop there? If you’ve figured out that you’re going to be misunderstood by someone somewhere for something, why are you mad?
I’m mad because there are too many of you who don’t understand what I’m saying or doing too often. I find it outrageous at this point. It’s like the only time I’m understood is when I’m in a room of seasoned scholars or in the presence of forty year-olds. Enough’s enough.
I’m not here to get into some philosophical bullshit you’ll rule out. I’m tired of you just as you’re tired of me. I’m already fucking up most of my sentences trying to write something you fucks won’t blow out of context because I figured out that I’m dealing with a bunch of idiots who never prod at anything for more than seven seconds.
This isn’t some boo-hoo, pussy, self-abhorrence to show all of you jackasses how fed-up with life I am. I’m better than that. This is a drawn-out “fuck you” and “if I had the opportunity, all of you would be placed in a box to starve somewhere.”
How many times am I going to have to say shit like “I’m not talking about all of them?” How many times am I going to have to fight to keep someone from generalizing my opinions so much that they miss EVERY detail of my explanation of where I stand? Why should I have to fight to do that? I don’t always and I certainly do much less frequently than I did up until a few years ago, but why is it that when I decide to, I end up having to back out of the conversation rather than see it to the end?
I say A-B-C and you fucktards only get A. I say the whole alphabet and you dumb fucks only get “he’s probably just playing devil’s advocate again.” That’s all I am to you fucks. That’s all anyone who deviates is. They’re just the cunt who says all the wrong things just to stand out. People like me don’t have an opinion until they’re in a room of qualified mediators—people who have the experience and audacity to diversify.
I tell you assholes I’m open-minded—you insist I’m not.
I tell you assholes I’m real about what I’m saying, offering my raw opinion—you insist I’m not real and my rawness is uncalled for.
I can show you where I’m getting my opinions from, why, how, etc… My explanation doesn’t get a lick of acknowledgement.
I hear so much about how narrow people are and how I should just do me, disregarding everyone else in the process. But how the fuck is that living?! How?! Most of the people saying this shit about disregard are people who have made it into extremely successful positions in which, apparently, they can waddle right out of their situation because they have the means to. Why should I bank on the possibility of me getting there? Why should I keep dumbing myself down? What if ignoring everyone is exactly what I shouldn’t do?
I don’t even have a goal anymore. I’m just sick of going against the grain by accident. It’s like I can’t bring myself to be anything but what isn’t normal.
I’m truly grateful for those who have shown they want to understand where I’m coming from and haven’t just jumped to thinking lowly of me. I’m just fed up and I want it all to be over.
I remember days my frustration with my social conditions would get so bad that I’d want to off myself. One night back in high school, I confided in my mother wholly, letting her know exactly what was up about my thoughts of killing myself because I was so tired of dealing with everyone. I had a good childhood and I’ll never complain about that, so my thoughts were never from anything within the scope of that. It was just people. I could never figure out why it was never just a few people I didn’t agree with, why I always stuck out. If most of you knew how bad the feeling is, you’d probably sit with me more. Instead, you’ll see this as some unspecific lash out at the world because of some mistakes I’ve made; you’ll look at me as if I’m just complaining, crying like a baby.
When I finally pick up that gun, turn it on myself and pull the trigger, a lot more of you will understand exactly what I was doing, how I was doing it, and why. I’ll make sure of it when it happens. I promise.