Arm(and)y Strong

Reblog if you have GDS.

wearejustlovely:

Good Debater Syndrome. 

(Source: sogoesagreatnovel)

Beer and Nyquil

I think differently than most people.

Take, for example, partying.

Most people either like to party…or don’t. 

For me, however, the question of like or dislike is secondary; the question of whether I am good at partying is primary. Then you go onto questions of how to measure that (charisma, ability to focus positive attention, skill at consuming large quantities of alcohol without becoming visibly inebriated so as to display manliness, etc.) and more importantly, how to improve those metrics. 

I think of life as a series of tasks to be accomplished, and skills to be gained. Although I don’t play video games any more, I think the best analogy is still to an old school RPG, where the hero must acquire skills and abilities as he progresses in his quest. 

And rest assured, gentle reader (yeah, I know “gentle reader” is a weird term but The Economist uses it and they’re awesome) there is a quest. I think weirdly because I live weirdly; most people I know are in one way or another trying to stumble and muddle their way to happiness. Whether they find it in work, family, or a dive bar in Queens is the big mystery of their life; my mystery, on the other hand, is not in the end goal but in how to get there. I know what I want in life, and have known for as long as I can remember—-I want to do as much good for as many people as possible, and I know exactly where I need to end up to accomplish it. 

But getting there? Goddamn. It’s hard. It’s really, really, really goddam hard. And it weighs on you, you know? Other people can—-and do—-rationalize the end state of their lives as “meant to be.” We are hardwired to perceive meaning in semirandom events, to discern patterns regardless of whether they exist or not. At the end of their lives, the overwhelming majority of people can smile and say they were happy with how things turned out, because lacking a clear vision, they can always rationalize and justify any outcome.

But me? I don’t have that option. If things do not end up exactly, to the goddam letter, of how I intend them, I will go to my grave a failure.

And that’s a scary thought, to picture yourself, old, fat, and gray, lying on some creaky hospital bed as Obama’s Death Panels issue their verdict—-kidding—-awaiting the end with nothing but a vast, vast reservoir of bitterness and regret. I wonder what motivates me more—-the fear of that image, or the hope of its opposite?

aesho asked: how did u find me?!?!? LOL

You follow me! Welcome to Armandland.