I’m never gonna ask for comments.
Never ever. It’s not gonna happen. You know why?
Because blogs are built on a corporate whoring fame structure. The more I ask you to “rate-comment-subscribe!” the more you’re supposed to do it. But the hypothetical you I’m addressing isn’t even some random passer-by from a local street. No, no, no. You are my friends. You’re the people who are interested enough in a blog written by Joe to come read it. And that’s okay. Basically, you’re everyone I know from Facebook. Well, not everyone. Over 200 readers a day would be boss.
I don’t get those kind of views. Jack told me the other day that I get 50 views for every comment I see. I don’t get any comments. In the words of Jayne Cobb, nothin’ times fifty is… hold up, let’s see, carry the nothin’, divide the nothin’, be sure to add nothin’…
Am I being an ingrate yet? I’m trying so hard.
I lost a reader this week. She seems to have been–oh, I’m sorry, they seem to have been my only faithful reader who just checked the site frequently as opposed to waiting for a post to hit Facebook. But none of you wait, do you? You just see one and come over here. Oh, that looks like it interests me! Doomp de doomp doomp, BLOG. Here you are. Kablamo.
Is it wittiness? Am I lacking in wit? What is it? Answer, at any time! Don’t be afraid of butting in, for this is why I’ll never ask for comments:
The comments box is right there at the end of the article. I realize nobody asked you a question, but the only time I’ll ever end a review in a question is if I liked the work in question and I appreciated its use of an open ending. I suppose that’s why I only have one comment that’s a direct reply to something I said in an article. Oh, that and Gwern telling me about the Eva mailing list from way back in 1994. I actually appreciate that one, he seems like a cool guy. I’d almost want him to be my official fact-checker at my blog, but that dude’s runnin’ Wikipedia, he ain’t got time on his hands.
Some days, I feel like the only person in the world with a sampler bank at the back of his head, interjecting quotes into regular parts of speech. I remember snatches and fragments of movies better than I do peoples’ names. Is that sad? Cos I don’t think so. If people had interacted with me as meaningfully as movies had throughout my life, I think that’d be sad, but let’s face it: I was raised by two parents, a brother and movies. Everyone else in the world got friends. I got films. And books. And albums. But most of all, movies. I was raised by movies.
Is that like being raised by wolves? Let me just say this: living my life is a day to day deconstruction of the romantic comedy. Angst happens when you realize that for his entire career, John Cusack has been full of it. Oh, I like the guy–charming star, capable actor, famous because he’s talented and lucky enough to’ve met the right people. But if you fashion your adolescent years around his movies, you’re gonna get it in the behind. It’s gonna happen, chief, and I feel bad for you when it does.
Movies condition your brain to expect the hero to win. Evolution conditions your brain to expect the hero to be you. Religion conditions your brain to believe that evolution is false. Or that we have no control over our lives. Or that, at the end of the day, everything is for a reason.
Here’s a tip, sugar, and you get it for free: Nothing is for a reason. There is no deeper meaning you can ascribe to any of your experiences. You know how I know? That sounds just like a story. And if there’s one sad fact I’ve learned from living my life, it’s that if you can see it with your eyes, feel it with your hands, taste it with your mouth and walk on it with your feet, it ain’t no story. You’re living reality. And reality doesn’t have themes, or leitmotifs, or tropes–sure, there’s enough truth in television to sink a cruise ship, but at the end of the day, that’s writing reflecting reality, not the other way around.
Or, it could be us reflecting writing. Cos we do that. All the time. I forget where I got my information (likely Cracked) but you’ve fabricated memories before. It’s easy. And they’re as implanted as any memory you have right now. Scary, huh? In either case, at the end of the world, our existence will have served no greater purpose. How is that such an arrogant belief to hold? Is it that I claim to know the answer? Well so do you, you hypocrite! You claim to know that my answer is wrong!
What’s that you say, straw-man? Neither of us know? Well, you just might be right. But neither of us know if the sun is gonna come up tomorrow, but the fact that the stars progress through the sky in a rotation that includes the sun that’s been observed for thousands of years seems to back up my argument that tomorrow morning, you’re gonna wake up. You’re gonna make breakfast. You’ll have forgotten all about this, all about me. All about what you’d done the night before. Because the sun will be in your eyes telling you to get up, get out of the tree and go down to the ground to scavenge for food with the rest of your ape family.
Neither of us know if there’s a god, but my answer terrifies me. For some reason, I’ve always found that the truth is often more frightening than it is comforting. The truth is that anyone will believe any thing they want to hear. Whether it’s about you, about me, about anything.
What was the point of this again? Oh right, fuck YouTube.