Being-Bad and Nothingness
I’m pretty sure the world is ending.
Everything is phenomenally fucked up; that much is obvious. You know, on the one hand, people letting their babies starve because they are too busy playing video games, and on the other, people all hot to blow themselves up for a cause. The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity. Etc.
I know: folks have been making doomsday predictions forevs. But this one is different.
When I had a cold a couple of weeks ago, Mr. Pistol handed me a cup of tea and said, “I’m surprised we can still get honey.”
And I was like, “Wha?”
“The honey shortage.”
I looked at him blankly.
“Yeah, you know how ALL THE BEES ARE DYING and everything?”
No, I didn’t know. But then I checked around and it turns out everyone else in the world already knew about this except for me, because I’m an idiot. It’s Colony Collapse Disorder, it’s sweeping the fucking globe, and I can’t even glance at the Wikipedia entry without having heart palpitations. According to Albert Einstein,
If the bee disappears from the surface of the earth, man would have no more than four years to live. No more bees, no more pollination, no more plants, no more animals, no more man.
And guess who was really smart? Duh. Well, except he maybe didn’t actually say that; the internet is really not sure. Anyway. It doesn’t matter to me who said it because it sounds so true. And that, people, is science.
The upshot is I don’t believe in the future anymore.
*
Sometimes at work when Baby is being bad, Nursemaid chases him around with her cell phone snapping pictures, shrieking, “Uncle see! Uncle see! Uncle see!” The implication is: Uncle will get angry when he sees these pictures of Baby’s bad behavior, and Baby will get in trouble later. It works. Baby always stops what he’s doing, throws his arms around Nursemaid, and begs her not to send the pictures.
My problem is that I don’t believe in Uncle, and I don’t believe in Later. So what is there to keep me from Being Bad?
Mr. Pistol is different. An optimist! For example: he really cares about the environment. I care too! I mean, everything’s ruined, the world is ending, and I’m really depressed about it. But Mr. Pistol’s all about action. (TWSS.) Seriously, though. He’s trying to do his part to salvage the unsalvageable. Cute! Like, he gives his friends compact fluorescents as presents. And lately he’s on a campaign against catalogs.
We get SO MANY CATALOGS, probably because once upon a time not so long ago, I was a sick chicken, and what is a person who has just confronted her mortality and is suddenly skinny as she was when she was sixteen to do but order dresses from Delia’s. When you order lots of shit from catalogs, you get lots of catalogs. You get The Popcorn Factory and For The Love of Dogs. You get Brookstone. You get Horchow. You get Harry and David. You get three Pottery Barns a week. But most of all, you get teenybopper catalogs. Since when have there been so many teenybopper catalogs? (Hint: End Times.)
Sometimes, paging through them I wonder: what is going to happen to those slim-hipped, empty-eyed lasses photoshopped onto pastoral scenes in plaid jackets and screenprinted hoodies? They don’t look strong enough for this crumbling world. And they’re styled all spooky-Lolita, and prolly they’ve never even heard of Nabokov. I would like them to know that that story does not end happily. I would like them to know that nothing really ends happily.
A couple of weeks ago, a new teen catalog arrived. I’d never seen it before. It was a budget production: printed on cheap paper, full of phony sports clothes that I’m pretty sure nobody wants. Sweatpants with FIELD HOCKEY printed down the leg. Running shorts with GOLF across the ass. Huh?
A few pages in, I discovered the redhead. This girl had that weird, fascinating aura of teenage sluttiness. I have never seen such a girl in a catalog before. This was not some American Apparel-style fantasy-waif, all dewy and doe-eyed, daring the fellows to take her to pound town. No! This was real! She had the same recent-growth-spurt body–monkey arms, sharp hipbones–as the rest of the girls. Her poses were no different. And yet, in every shot, her archtypical sluttiness shone out. It was in her eyes, and in the infinitesimal tilt of her jaw: a gaze hostile, hungry, crumpled, and tough.
I give blowjobs on the bus on the way back from away games. WHAT OF IT?
The world is ruined anyway.
Why not?
I would’ve scanned her so you could see her, but Mr. Pistol whisked that catalog into the recycling bin with all the rest, once he was done calling the number on the back and telling them please take his wife off their mailing list.
Red’ll be back, though. They all will. I just ordered a gazillion bathing suits for our upcoming trip to Puerto Rico with the intention of sending them all back but for the one lucky winner. I know, I know. My carbon footprint. I’m sorry Mr. Pistol: the ship is sinking, and the flesh is weak.
Leave a Reply