everybody having a good time
except you
you were talking about the end of the world
I always wonder about people. The choices they make, how they get there, what drives them. I try not to think about it too much, because I would go crazy, but I do. Little things.
There was this man, once. A man that I, um, read about. He was not much older than me. It was his birthday, which is something that I always notice. He shot himself. At his birthday party. In front of his wife and kids. On, actually, his wife. I remember him specifically not because of the horrific nature of our meeting, through the newspaper, but because he was particularly memorable in his own right. It's weird, what you can tell about a person. Fastidious. Clean. Ridiculously well groomed. Perfect. Physically, perfect. Here is the thing that stuck with me. He had a very small Band-Aid on one finger. Very small, one of those teeny ones that are harder to put on than even makes sense. The useless ones that come off ten minutes later. He had one of those Band-Aids on. And when I took it off there was a perfect little line of what was clearly Neosporin. Such a small injury. Possibly a papercut. But this man had taken the time to put Neosporin on it, before he covered it with a completely unnecessary Band-Aid. Such a small injury, so well taken care of. Such a small matter to command the attention of this husband and father in the hours before his birthday party. I wonder what he was thinking about when that happened. I wonder if he thought Dammit, that's going to sting when I go swimming (because he was clearly a swimmer). I wonder if he thought You know, I have really got to get a letter opener. I wonder if he had the first aid kit readily available or if he had to make a special trip to the store in order to obtain the supplies necessary to treat that wound.
Mostly I wonder what the fuck is going on with you when you will spend who knows how long treating a completely innocuous wound ten minutes before you stick a gun in your mouth. I wonder if the little things become so routine, so rote. I wonder if you really actually THINK that you need a Band-Aid when you know perfectly well that you are going to be dead before it has time to heal. What I really wonder is why we spend so much time on things that don't fucking matter and nothing, at all ever, on the things that do.
I would like to drill that into my own head, and the heads of the people I am close to. Not you. I mean those people. The ones that might be having the sort of conversation with me in which I have to ask Is this really worth getting upset about? Because, seriously, this is like the Band-Aid before the head shot. Because really, there really are such bigger things to worry about. To spend your time and energy on. How many times have I asked him to stop wearing his shoes on the carpet, when what I really mean is Please do not sleep with my friends anymore. How many times have I said I really should get more exercise when really I should find out why the fuck I can't stop falling over. At what point do I decide that five twelve twenty little teeny things are enough to warrant a really big explosion? Cause individually, they are being batted away. They are such small things. They are papercuts. And I wonder if I will even notice when half my head is missing, or if it will simply seem like one more thing.
you were talking about the end of the world
I always wonder about people. The choices they make, how they get there, what drives them. I try not to think about it too much, because I would go crazy, but I do. Little things.
There was this man, once. A man that I, um, read about. He was not much older than me. It was his birthday, which is something that I always notice. He shot himself. At his birthday party. In front of his wife and kids. On, actually, his wife. I remember him specifically not because of the horrific nature of our meeting, through the newspaper, but because he was particularly memorable in his own right. It's weird, what you can tell about a person. Fastidious. Clean. Ridiculously well groomed. Perfect. Physically, perfect. Here is the thing that stuck with me. He had a very small Band-Aid on one finger. Very small, one of those teeny ones that are harder to put on than even makes sense. The useless ones that come off ten minutes later. He had one of those Band-Aids on. And when I took it off there was a perfect little line of what was clearly Neosporin. Such a small injury. Possibly a papercut. But this man had taken the time to put Neosporin on it, before he covered it with a completely unnecessary Band-Aid. Such a small injury, so well taken care of. Such a small matter to command the attention of this husband and father in the hours before his birthday party. I wonder what he was thinking about when that happened. I wonder if he thought Dammit, that's going to sting when I go swimming (because he was clearly a swimmer). I wonder if he thought You know, I have really got to get a letter opener. I wonder if he had the first aid kit readily available or if he had to make a special trip to the store in order to obtain the supplies necessary to treat that wound.
Mostly I wonder what the fuck is going on with you when you will spend who knows how long treating a completely innocuous wound ten minutes before you stick a gun in your mouth. I wonder if the little things become so routine, so rote. I wonder if you really actually THINK that you need a Band-Aid when you know perfectly well that you are going to be dead before it has time to heal. What I really wonder is why we spend so much time on things that don't fucking matter and nothing, at all ever, on the things that do.
I would like to drill that into my own head, and the heads of the people I am close to. Not you. I mean those people. The ones that might be having the sort of conversation with me in which I have to ask Is this really worth getting upset about? Because, seriously, this is like the Band-Aid before the head shot. Because really, there really are such bigger things to worry about. To spend your time and energy on. How many times have I asked him to stop wearing his shoes on the carpet, when what I really mean is Please do not sleep with my friends anymore. How many times have I said I really should get more exercise when really I should find out why the fuck I can't stop falling over. At what point do I decide that five twelve twenty little teeny things are enough to warrant a really big explosion? Cause individually, they are being batted away. They are such small things. They are papercuts. And I wonder if I will even notice when half my head is missing, or if it will simply seem like one more thing.
posted by machine central at 4:44 PM
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