Ernest Disease

Isolation sucks, but I don't know how to break it. I'm totally feral; I'm completely unsocialized. OTOH, I do all my own thinking. I'm capable of freestyling casual insight to knock the socks off most listeners. OTOH, heavy addicts talk about "the abyss", where you lose all your delusions and stare clear-eyed at hard reality. Well, we learn how to have those illusions through social pressure. It's trained into a developing brain and if you don't get it at the right age, it's never real.

Think of people who didn't learn reflex violence as toddlers. There are adults who are warriors at that bone-deep level, and anyone who came to violence later in life will always be, on some level, a punk-ass who is faking it. I'm like that with every-fucking-thing, to the point where I gave up even attempting to be fake before I hit puberty. I'm just me, nothing special, not especially evil. Chaotic neutral on the two axis moral scale. Lower left, on the two axis political scale, and I'm stuck in the abyss. I literally can't see the world any other way. My brain doesn't do false hope or rosy glasses, and the abyss is fucking sticky. Nobody wants to be around me for long. They just end up projecting what they don't like about themselves onto me and then hating on me for it. "Scapegoating" is ye olde Jewish term for it.

And, please, don't read this wrong—I'm not saying that whatever they see in me, whatever the hateable thing is, isn't there. I know it is. I am legion. 40 years alone in my head since I was old enough to leave memories that stuck—I've explored every last nook and cranny inside this skull. I just don't hate myself for it. I own it and move on. If it causes harm, I don't act on it. It's not that fucking hard, and I'm an angry white man alone in a room. If I was a creep in any way shape or form they would have drawn it out of me by now. I'm one of the most heavily surveilled men on the planet, and I understand why, and it's so. Fucking. Pointless.

I am good at making people laugh, though. I give good ramble. I ran out of book learnin' to chase by the time I was out of my teens, although they have factories churning out new book learning these days. I was always too traumatized to tunnel too deeply into any one area; I had to float and bumblefuck my way through life until enough general knowledge accrued that my disorganized brain could pull (apparently often accurate) conclusions entirely out of my ass. I call it "Ernest disease"—I'm overwhelmed by absurdity everywhere I look.

Why just today, I read that the Icelandic Prime Minister took the day off in solidarity with a one-day national women's strike for gender equality. My brain immediately wrote the following day's headline: Putin Annexes Iceland while Head of State Sulks. Not that I'm against women's equality. Hell, I'd put them on top for the next 5,000 years, just to balance things. Us cocks certainly made a Koch-up of the world. I'm writing this wondering if I need to explain the joke further. Is it just me, or did humor itself die out in this dying world, let alone wit?