Dear Uncle Randy,
I’ve just arrived in town and I’m struggling to work out why everyone here whinges so much. Help me out here…
Are you blind? Are you on psychotropics? Don’t you get it?! Wake up and smell the hot steaming cup of crap that is life on Planet Diarrhoea! You may think it’s all fairy farts and candied nipples, but it’s not. Life is nothing but an irksome burden: a Lego under foot; a chronic wedgie; one blocked nostril; a video that buffers, and buffers, and buffers . . . but never plays past the ads.
Life, it seems, is forever falling short of our glossy promises, a drab and vulgar simulacrum of those glamorous, airbrushed desires. It is the disparity in the gleaming wonder-burger of the menu board, and the sad, meaty mess falling apart between your cruddy fingers, flavoured only by the salt of your own worthless tears. Such are the torments of our conditioned dissatisfaction. Because, in reality, our lives are painfully humdrum, deliriously disappointing; deficient. Shouldn’t I be a world renowned man of intrigue posing front page with a harem of supermodels, already? Why are your abs sunken beneath fathoms of flab whilst your buttocks have the allure of road sign? Meanwhile, the house is too small and the car passé – phones, wristwatches, gizmo dongle thingthings have lost their shimmering novelty, only to become frustrating and obsolete, ultimately failing to remedy our deeper, inner voids.
Our true needs have been hijacked and bastardised! Rather than life purpose and meaning, love and fulfilment, we suffer shallow artifices, sacrificing the authentic for the synthetic, everyday. We build our identities in furniture and kitchen appliances, affirm our existence in a pair of shoes, discover our very souls in a yoga mat. How can we be satisfied with such imposters?! And as sensations of discomfort and dissatisfaction simmer, we heave and retch and project our dismay blindly onto our own privileged existences, spitting with confused and bitter resentment. But, in doing so, pressure is released, inner tensions assuaged, and perhaps even a little meaning is wrested from the day, some substance snatched from the quotidian stupor of what life has become.
We whinge, in short, because we are yet to discover what really matters to us, what truly deserves our energy and concern. And, ultimately, it just feels nice. Give it a go.
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