Wednesday, June 11, 2008
I opened my eyes when you were kissing me
You can’t make someone like you.
Sure, you can buy them presents, compliment the hell out of them, treat them like dirt, and call them four thousand times a minute, but you can’t make someone like you.
I’m not dispensing any hidden wisdom, or new aphorisms for the ages, this material has all been covered ad nauseum by fiction writers throughout the ages, from Jove coming to Leda as a swan to Pamela Anderson, agreeing to let Tommy Lee film their fucking only because he promised that ‘no one will ever see this;’ and yet, there are still millions of people in this world, right now, doing their best to make other people like them.
One of the saddest realities is that the harder you try to make someone like you, the less they will.
All of us have had a sad, unpleasant person, doing their best to ingratiate themselves into our lives, only to meet rejection, disinterest, or outright hostility; all because some aspect of their personality made us instantly dislike them.
Personally, I never turn down an offer, when someone wants me to be their friend or lover, I jump at the chance, no matter how idiotic, homely, or herpes infested they are, because, unlike many of you who refuse to eat out of the garbage, insist that it’s proper to shower, and look down on people who use their hands instead of toilet paper, I have low standards.
The world does not exist to please you.
Our senses are tricky things; unlike our imaginations and memories, we can’t control what we see, hear, touch, smell, or taste; however, not all senses are equal. I have much more control over what I touch and taste than what I see, hear, or smell. A passing motorist might have Leo Sayer pumping out of their car’s windows and my ears have no alternative but to receive that sensory input, but I’ll be damned if I’m about to stick a syphilitic, menstruating hooker’s only, never-washed, pair of panties in my mouth… again.
In my memory, sure, I’ve blocked out the incident where a one-legged prostitute held me down, took my money, and made me eat her dirty underwear, but, at the time, there was nothing I could do to keep that rancid, cotton and rusty coin taste out of my mouth.
Censors have done their best to control input of unmonitored sensory receptors by putting restrictions, both legal and social, on audio/visual/odiferous output. There is no blood in violent television and films because seeing the consequences of violence might make people question the logic of allowing citizens to own as many guns as they can afford. There are no breasts, penises, or vaginas on TV because that would make children grow up thinking there’s nothing inherently wrong, or shameful, with other people seeing their genitals. We are forced to silence our farts in elevators, concert halls, and our offices so that someone else can smelt it, and, by constitutional law, be said to have dealt it.
Unfortunately, there are no restrictions, no ratings system, for tastes and touches.
I know, technically there is a rating system for “touching” in that I won’t be allowed back at Disney World if I keep doing what I do to people when I stand in crowded lines, but that’s not the kind of touching I’m talking about.
If seeing naked people leads to social decay, then were is the moral majority demanding that the government cover our bodies in thin layers of rubber or Teflon, to prevent impure tactile titillation from doing the same.
Censorship of any kind sends the message that we, as human beings, have an understanding so limited that we immediately want to do anything we see or hear, which is exactly why I’ve been working on a pair of anti-gravity boots ever since I heard the seminal 80s pop song ‘Dancing on the Ceiling.’
Sure there are some things that are fun to try once we’ve seen, heard or read about them, but we also have the necessary intelligence to figure out that while you might like to try sharing your girlfriend with seven or twelve of your closest friends, like you saw in ‘A Dozen Black Dicks for One Little White Chick’ it’s probably a bad idea to plug a USB cable into the back of your head, connect it to your computer, and assume you know kung fu.
It’s no wonder that the biggest proponents of censorship, a group that believes we go to a magical land of gumdrops and stinkless farts after we die, also does its best to eliminate the one tool that makes censorship unnecessary… a quality education.
We could also use a wax coating inside our mouths so that, like myself, a young man doesn’t one day suck on a fistful of old pennies and then get the hankering for some illicit, menstrual sex worker sex.
Sex Mahoney for President
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by Fiona Apple
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