My rantings and ravings. Well, the ones you're allowed to see anyways. Beware, they're cryptic.
Of course not.
Published on September 24, 2004 By RandomPhilosophies In Philosophy
I was allotted 4 minutes to float towards work alone before I encountered a mental roadblocker of a historical dilemma. But we'll ignore the past for now.

Dwelling on this afternoon, rather.

I just saw teeshirts. Really, in that 4 minutes - teeshirt after teeshirt after teeshirt. Mighty Mouse - Hot Topic. Abercrombie. Theta. Underoath - Warped Tour. Flower Tank from Wet Seal. Polo. Polo. Theta. Illinois. Miss Behave in rhinestones. Wow.

Then before I crossed the street, I noticed the backside of the pretty girl with the long hair. She's far too skinny and I see her everywhere, but her small frame appeals to her weightless air. She works it and floats anyway, Red-free.

Girls on bikes. Smiling. I like it when people smile. Ultimately, I wish everyone did a lot more smiling. Come on, friends, you've earned it. Time is short. Don't count on your youth and beauty much longer. Smile while you still don't know better. You're wasting time.

But then, who am I to talk. I find myself discouraging the happiness of others, so to speak, from time to time. But that makes me human, yes?

Anyway, Crossing the Street: I wonder if I shall run into my demigod, eh? Of course not. I was only hit by that roadblock. Or did I hit it? Anyway, one conversation later (a wake, misfortunes, Girl dogs are better than boy dogs, happy birthday) I was at work.

Fuck.

And then the Russians, right? I paid them little mind. Not Czarina, love. No, no. Never that. Rather, the discussion. I paid it little mind. Yes, them. I found myself daydreaming about that night at the beach. It might have been years ago. The neighborhood was far from safe then. Like the carcrash on the ride home. The demigods who have died. And who regretted their choices? Never me, never me. Far be it from me to know the meaning of the word: regret? What is this thing you speak of! And still, I remember listening to Ozzy Osbourne and the industrial lights flying by as we drove and drove and knew what it felt like to be young. Did we get in trouble that night? Well, technically, we all got in trouble every night.

And then I thought of voting. I'm not voting. Get over it. Just because I can, doesn't mean I should. And just because a few random friends of mine hate that one guy doesn't mean I should just up and vote for the other guy. I have no right to have an opinion as I am ignorant, uninformed, and choose to stay so. Don't try to educate me, you'll only earn my disfavor. After all, I rise up from under, admitting inferiority, so that one day (perhaps) I can be one of the wise. I have to understand before I can make choices, yes?

(And admit it: you're not pissed off at me because I'm not voting. You're pissed off at me because I'm not voting Anti-Bush. Think about it: the people pushing us lame apathetic and depressed young adults to vote are the people who want Bush out of office. Really, now, don't encourage people to vote if your plan is to convince them how to vote.)

Come to think of it, that reminds me of a teeshirt.

Comments
on Sep 24, 2004
How true,
good article RP.
on Oct 15, 2004
This is one of the most irresponsible things I've read this week, and I read a lot of stuff on the Internet, so that's saying something.
I AM, in fact, pissed that you're not voting. To cherish your ignorance and then pretend that your philosophy can possibly be important is embarrassing. If you refuse to educate yourself or be educated by others, what makes you think that you have anything important to say about anything?
I've read a lot of writing by a lot of people, students, published writers, and teachers. And I've read a fair amount of what you've written, and it matches exactly with so many papers, short stories, and poems I've read whose main purpose was to give the impression that the writer is a worldy, competent, and interesting person rather than give the impression that the writer knows what she is talking about.
You know how to write. What you don't know how to do is make me believe that, if asked, you could explain any of what you've written. Can you? If you can, will you? Please?