Who Are You?

Why, you are what you like. Everyone knows that. Sheesh. Just look at how pissed most people get when you say their favorite band sucks, or just, in general, when you say you dislike something that somebody else really enjoys. Then they start spewing out phrases like, "in your opinion."

"WHAT?"

"Celine Dion sucks...in your opinion."

"No, dude. She sucks. Ass. Well known fact."

"Damn it. That's just your opinion."

"Well, yeah. I said it, dickwad."

Grrr...awkward silence. I will crush you. I will crush you too. I mean, first.

So, there it is: proof that you are what you like. I think Buddhists disagree though. Something about non-attachment to this world or something. Bleh. You know what's cool? Tits.

Buddhism wouldn't be half of what it is today if they had a fuller appreciation for tits. In fact, I think I'm going to become one of those people who says everything they like is "the tits." Yeah, that's what I'll be. One of them. They seem happy enough. You know what those people are? They're the tits.

But then, I think that would make one of them...a singular tit. One tit alone is a sad anomaly. The lone boob...is not the tits. So maybe we're really defined by the people around us? Who would we be without them?

We depend on them to get from one day to the next. Just think how much of the stuff around you was built by other people and not by you. And of the stuff you built, who built the tools? And then you follow that chain of who-caused-who-and-what-caused-what all the way up the line and you get to God...or maybe the stars?

Yes, that's it. I'm a Scorpionic Cancer Jew Rat with Moon in Taurus. Problem solved. That's who I am. Glad that's done. Now back to...waiting a minute. THAT DIDN'T SOLVE ANYTHING. It just made me sound like some strange beastly animal made up of forces I can't control. That's fucking bullshit. Fuck that. "Cancer is a sensitive...BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH." Damn it. I know what I like and I'm a lot more complicated than that.

So if it's not the stars up that line of what-caused-what, maybe it's genetics? Yes, that's it. I am what came before me, all rolled up into a neat little package of potentials determined by dead people. (No, no...that's not depressing at all. Why would you suggest such a thing? My mind is encaged within a physical system that does not meet its imaginative capabilities even one second of the day...That's wonderful.)

BLEH. Too many limitations. Maybe if I believe my genetics irrelevant, then I can make them irrelevant? Then I could be in the NBA! Woo hooooooo! Manifemotherfuckingstation! That's the secret sauce! (The tits maybe?) I can be anything I like. I can make happen whatever I want to make happen. I just have to will it...with my mind, brain, and head.

Yes, that's the key to truth. It's all the result of will. We are "the sum total of our actions." I think a dead, probably white, guy said that. And I bet that guy owned some property, making his opinion better than others around that time. Poor people's actions are usually something along the lines of: work, eat, sleep, work, eat, sleep, fuck if lucky, repeat until dead. Not as romantic as sitting around, writing about what defines a human being.

Bloody hell...That's it! We're the amount of money that we have. That explains it all. More Money = Better Person. Or maybe the other way around? Yes, it all makes so much sense now. Except not really. This "everything relies on economic factors" stuff is a headache and pays no attention to what actually motivates human beings.

The Buddhists were, like...totally...like, on to something. You must: detach from the physical, breathe in the violence of this world, and breathe out pure joy and love and orgastic pleasure. Wait? No orgastic pleasure for them? Fuck that shit. I like sex. It's nice.

Maybe if it isn't the stars or my genes that help me see who I am, it's my personal relationship with God? Yes! Finally, the truth. The Lord is the answer. Praise the Lord! I want to go to a black church and sing in a black choir. ...I really do, if they'd have me. I love black choirs... Then the truth would be known to all, because I'd be singing it loud and proud! And if anyone questioned me, I'd be like, "Hey, how'd you like to GO TO HELL?!"

And the proof would be in the pudding, because if they kept fighting me, I'd make their life into hell. Suckas. Suckas always be askin stupid questions like, "If you're so certain that you have the answers about God, why can't you answer a few simple questions without circular logic?"

Bam! Right in the eye. That's yo answer, bitch.

"But, errr....doesn't the bible say to love thy neighbor as thy self?"

"Yeah, that is me and what I come from: whatchu think my parents did to me when I axed questions like that? Shit, I hit you light, you pussy."

"What does vagina have to do with this? Does it make you uncomfortable?" [MORE VIOLENCE HERE.] "Stop hitting me. You don't have to perpetuate the mistakes that your parents made. You have free will. Your genes don't control your choices."

"Oh yeah..."

Maybe the only thing that defines us is what we say? Maybe only what we write down? I'd be content with that if I didn't believe it were obviously wrong.

There's no one answer (42?), but I can understand why someone would want to just pick one thing and cling to it. I also understand why someone would want to get all wishy washy and just define themselves by what they like...

I think a lot of people in this country treat love as their one answer, but romantic love is a roller coaster, the wooden kind without proper spacing to keep you from hitting your elbows. Then, when they figure that out, they treat divorce as their answer. Then they get a mid-life crisis and anoint as the one true ultimate answer everything from Astrology to Jo Ray to Reiki to Yoga to Channeling Entities From Beyond to UFOs to Conspiracy Theories to Commune Life to every little stupid trend that walks along and has some elements of the last one that didn't seem to fill the hole, MOM. Then they try reliving their teenage years with "the" rock music and the neat/cool stuff they "like" to remind them why they aren't like their parents, only now it's why they're not like their kids. And it doesn't work either. So perhaps they figure out that helping other people is the only way to feel more whole after all the madness, and finally, they pick themselves up and get back on the train they should have been on. And then they die. And don't get me started about what happens next.

Or maybe the answer is TITS? I am what reminds me of tits. Oedipus didn't have shit on me. I'm the tits by comparison. We're singing, "titty-titty-tit, ti-titta-titty-tit." I do feel better now. You know what would make this moment better though? Tits.

ANYWHO, I RESERVE THE RIGHT TO DELETE THIS BECAUSE IT ANSWERED NOTHING. But I prolly will just leave it for a while, then come back to it and try to make it meaningful.

Tits.

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