October 23, 2005

Live Fast, Die Young

Given the significant amount of verbiage I have dedicated to the topics of love and marriage in the past few years, it might surprise many people to hear me maintain with steadfast certainty that I am planning to be married by the age of thirty. I mean, if I have such a negative opinion on the subject, what could possibly compel me to seek out the very misery I routinely denounce? Well, that's simple: when your very existence unequivocally depends on something, regardless of how reprehensible, you do what it takes to make sure you survive. Quintessential Darwin. What? Yeah. Read on.

Anyone who has ever met me, or perhaps even read this site, probably realizes I am most assuredly not someone who exudes masculinity, nor have I ever been. Always living on the edge of emaciation, I don't care all that much for beer, can't be bothered with trucks, hate the stupid handshakes, and even use Pantene Pro-V. Yet, what most people don't realize is that behind the effeminate body and the questionable use of feminine hair care products, lies an undeniably masculine (that is, unhealthy, unstable, and unsustainable) approach to life—one that has only worsened with my move to San Francisco.

Left to my own devices, and in the notable absence of females, my life, without fail, degenerates into conditions that would probably make the biggest gun-toting, Nascar-watching, Budweiser-drinking redneck in the South look like Martha Stewart—well, before she went to jail. Case in point: despite having lived in my apartment in San Francisco since July, my room is littered with papers, unpacked boxes, and sharp objects that stab me each morning when I wake up. My light does not work, so once night falls, I only have my computer monitor; dirty laundry covers both pieces of furniture in my room; the only food I have in the house is a frozen pizza (although I might have eaten that); and there are more wires running in my room than you would find in a typical server room. I spend my weekdays working ceaselessly, and my weekends drinking tirelessly.

So, if I recognize that my life is falling apart at the seams, why haven't I done anything about it? Complacency? No. Worse. Apathy. I honestly am not bothered by my living conditions. And as things slowly get worse, I simply lower my standards, and adapt. For this very reason, a strong correlation exists between the level of my instability and the amount of contact with women. While my standards have never shown lower bounds, most women I have met are not as inclined to accept worsening standards indefinitely, and moreover, don't tolerate when I do it either. Whether it is a dirty look at seeing my living conditions, or a pointed remark about my eating habits, it is usually sufficient to make me clean up a bit, and moreover, slow my slide into what is more or less a natural state.

Perhaps now you understand my statement earlier. Considering the ever-worsening cycle of work, despair, and alcoholism I have fallen into, I figure I only have about eight years ( /- 1) to survive—I mean, the human body can only take so much abuse, right? Either way, I will be living fast, dying young. Whether it is physical death from an unsustainable lifestyle, or (maybe worse) metaphorical death from the evils of love, marriage, and a lifetime of bullshit, makes no difference. Eight years left! Got to make them last!