Existentialistic Sunday

I was having an existentialistic Sunday. Most people would just call it a hangover, but I think that’s understating the revelations your state of mind and body produces as you’re shaking like a leaf, totally drained of energy, and – to your own amazement – carefully considering that scary something optimists like to call ‘your future’. What a frightful concept! There’s another tomorrow? Shit!

It introduces all kinds of new concepts you feel that you should have sorted out when people around you stated how mature you’d become all of a sudden, concepts like ‘responsibility’. I never got the hang of that one. The word itself is pretty harmless. Yes, even inresponsible thinking about how much shit that can lurk behind it. Like a troll behind your door. Sooner or later you’ll notice it, at least smell it. Following, you realize that more than half of what you’ve done in your life qualifies as ‘mistakes’.

That’s one way of introducing yourself to an existentialistic Sunday. Or a hangover on the couch. Slowly things are falling into place before you, like a mental jigsaw puzzle, but you don’t like the finished picture. Instead of a beautiful woman, like The Madonna for instance, it turns out to be a picture of a battered newt.
With a bracelet.

Women, yes. They’re like men without balls, instead they’ve got brains, which – in most cases – outweighs your balls by a ratio of 3 to 1. And, for some mysterious reasons, you want them. Women, that is. Not to compare balls and brains, no, it’s just something you perceive as being part of a state of happiness, having one. And they feed themselves. Heck, if you’re really lucky they even feed you! (Don’t count on it, though)

Still on the couch thinking about this, your what’s-it-called – comprehension – draws a line between earlier reasonings and you clearly see that most of your ‘mistakes’ are somewhat related to women. One or the other way. It can only be glancing at a red-haired lady with enormeous breasts across the street, for instance, forgetting to see where you’re going. Destiny sees to it that there’s an equally attractive, even more so, woman right in front of you enjoying a cup of soft ice cream. The latter is carefully, again by Destiny, smeared all over the victim’s unsuspecting breasts. And this is, by all means, just a really innocent example of what can happen when involved with that 48% of the world’s population. Against all earthly logic, however, you don’t improve. You still have this notion that you want a woman. Tough one.

Ignoring the matter, you move along to your Future. Unforlding in front of you, like an imaginary brochure, is your expectations in black and white, capital letters: "THE PERFECT LIFE. Your Future." Sounds relly great. You flip through the first three or four pages looking mostly at the pictures. Most of the contains either women, cars or briefcases stuffed with money, or combinations of the three. You get the hang of the idea, you even like it, and your wishful thinking works really hard trying to put yourself in that red sportscar, next to that blonde holding your briefcase full of thousand dollar bills. You almost make it, and it gives you a good feeling. Then you flip to the last two pages.

Text only.

Really small letters. Oh, well.

"Requirements"
a) Behave
b) Study hard
c) Work nightshifts and save money for later mortages
d) Behave. When not, use condoms.
etc. etc. for two entire pages.

You mentally erase the brochure, back to the couch and the white ceiling above you, pretty damn depressed. Why? Because you know yourself. With a student’s loan on your account, five figures, you wouldn’t stand a chance not to waste some of it. Most of it, actually. Probably, even, all of it! Second, you wouldn’t behave more than a pig at a royal banquet, let alone work nightshifts. At night you’re sleeping off the alcohol, right?

Again, on the existentialistic side of the Sunday or your designated hangover, you ask yourself a question sounding more or less like this: Could I change?

You know you’ve lost the battle when you’re trying to answer the simple yes-or-no question with a percentage of yes. That’s called clutching to the last shred of hope you’re supposed to have. Still, there’s the unfamiliar voice of positivity somewhere deep inside you trying to break down your handcrafted framework of philosophical pessimism. You’re still got your health. Sure, not right now I haven’t, but –
And there’s always good money to make driving garbage. Oh yes.

At the end of your inner travel, your dive into Lake You, you’ve sorted out the following: a)You don’t have a future. b)You’ll keep making ‘mistakes’ since you’ll keep your eyes on women and not the current (and random, perhaps) path of direction. c)The only way to fulfill the brochure pictures is to "bend the rules" a little. I.e steal two million dollars, a red sportscar and persuade some light-headed, hitchikin’ gal to get into your car and just ignore the four heavily armed policepatrol cars chasing you. Doing this would kind of defeat the purpouse. I mean, it’s pretty hard to relax at some tropical island somewhere when the local authorities are taking shots at you all the time. It’s almost stressfull.

So, the perfect life is out.
The idea of a plain, down-to-regular life starts to seem both probable and attractive. It has got to. Or else you’ll soon find yourself lying on a couch somewhere going through the exact same procedure all over again.

Hey! I’ve never said I was mature. Someone made that up. Some stupid someone. And I really don’t care what stupid someones thinks about my level of maturity or lack thereof. Honestly. This is my fucking life, after all. Geez!

8 thoughts on “Existentialistic Sunday”

  1. I know.
    Didn’t use the oppurtunity to write something else, though. Maybe I will.
    I got the wrong record, though. On what Cornell album do I find ‘Seasons’? That’s the shit I was waiting to hear. Listened all night. Two times over. Freaggin’ waste of money.

  2. Haha. You are a fool, my friend. The only way to get seasons, is either to download it, or to buy the “Singles” soundtrack form ’92. Even when you know the name of the song, you still manage to buy the wrong record! BTW, Euphoria isn’t a waste og money. It contains highly sophisticated songwrightings, such as: Moonchild, Sweet Euphoria, and that other one… ah… nr. 4.. aso.. great!

  3. I can dig that. I also dig the album. Still, isn’t there any other record than the Singles? I mean. I’d hardly like to provoce more income to the maker of such an uneventful movie.

  4. Fuck the movie, dig the song. There really isn’t anny other way. If you dont get your hands on some secret “Chris CornellSoundgarden Complete Songlist Set”, that no one’s ever heard of… How can ya say Singles is ineventful? Shit happendes all the time! Sex, drugs, rock n’ roll… haha. Best movie there is..

  5. I’ve begun to stop taking you seriously. In fact, I’ve never taken you seriously. If I was ever to be serious, I wouldn’t take that seriously. I’m serious here. Seriously!

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