Like Ten Thousand Spoons

By in

A traffic jam when you’re already late
And a “No Smoking” sign on your cigarette break
It’s like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife
It’s meeting the man of my dreams, and meeting his beautiful wife.

– Alanis Morissette, “Ironic”
Jagged Little Pill, Maverick (1996) 

All of a sudden, things don’t make sense anymore from where I stand.  It’s a crazy world out there.

At the very least, I can blame it on something like aging.  The moons are approaching before I hit the big 2-4, and this isn’t just another one of those “manic Mondays.”  All of a sudden, my view of the world is getting more and more jaded.  People are not to be trusted, for the evil inherent in them.  The world is nothing more than an assemblage of deception.  The only vindication from all of this is pain and death, in the absence of anything more triumphant or optimistic.

That paragraph, summarized, is “Fuckin’ Monday.”

A friend of mine loses his job, and I’m unusually numb.  I got ditched on a date, and I’m not feeling a thing.  Father calls, and I respond nonchalantly.  The world is imploding all over me, and I don’t really care.

I mean, seriously, what’s the point?  There’s angst about nothing in particular, so there’s no way to channel it.  It takes an Alanis epigraph, and three paragraphs, for me to say, “Fuck this.”

Those two paragraphs, condensed, is “Fuck you.”

My way with words sometimes amazes me.  Then again, it can sometimes disgust me.  The reality sets in that I’m an idiosyncrasy on two legs, a conflicted machine with but three options: Abort, Retry, Fail.  To my credit, it’s always on “Retry.”  Where surrendering is not an option, there’s always the option to revise, rephrase, and do things all over again.  When somebody points it out, though, it hurts even more.  I’m blind to my own mistakes, so much so that I’m left high and dry looking for that error.

Then when you realize there’s pretty much nothing you can do about it, you just give up.  I’m the only person capable of hurting myself, and I’m pretty damn good at it.  Is it homesickness?  Is it heartache?  Perhaps frustration.  Maybe it’s just the feeling that I have to darken the shades of the black I wear, just so that something will stand out in a world of rainbows and happiness and joy.  Or lengthen my words and complicate my phrases, just so that I can capture the truth of the conflicted, complicated feelings I have inside.

At the very least I can start to be honest with myself and say that I’m a pained, tortured individual, lost in the search for affirmation.  That truth is somewhere out there.  That justice and vindication is so close.  Just so that I can start caring for myself for once, and stop hurting myself for things I can’t do anything about.

Pardon my rambling, all this shall pass.  I’m just using ten thousand spoons to say what I feel.  If I used a knife, this entry would have simply been: “Fuck this shit, screw it all.”

Sometimes, all it takes is a crapshoot to put things into perspective.

2 comments on “Like Ten Thousand Spoons”

  1. Reply

    I will not be patronizing you, but you’re not alone on this one.

    • dk
    • June 30, 2009

    this shall pass, it might take more than the usual cigarettes during our cigarette breaks, but this will. *pat pat hug*

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