November 04, 2005

My Romantic Quest: From Cynicism to Nihilism (Part 1)

Halloween 2005 has come and gone, and with it, one of the more momentous occasions in the short, but turbulent history of rohitsrealm.com. No, dumbasses, I'm not referring to the photographic evidence of my handiwork as a makeup artist that was recently made available on my gallery, although I am quite proud of my new found skills with eyeliner. Give up? Well, October 31, 2005, marked the fourth anniversary of the founding of the Realm!

As unbelievable as it sounds, it's been four years since I, as a lowly and nondescript freshman in college, decided to launch a vain and egotistical tribute to my unquestionably marginalized and futile existence. Who could have known that a mere four years later, this endeavor would have propelled me into being the fourth most popular rohit in the world? Many have asked me in the past months since graduation where I plan to take the Realm now that I can no longer properly attest to being the proverbial disgruntled college student. Naysayers and critics have already predicted my downfall, while friends and supporters have made suggestions ranging from blogging on politics to dumbing down my writing to reach a broader audience to finding myself.

To answer friends and foes alike, I will say this: Rohit's Realm was formed on the steadfast pillars of anger, cynicism, bitterness, and elitism, and to change that would be to deny the very essence of my being; I am nothing if not angry, cynical, bitter, and elitist. Equally absurd is the notion of finding myself, because despite my age and disposition to the quintessential postmodern early twenties post-adolescent artistic phase, I have unfortunately already found myself, and quite frankly, it would probably have been better for everyone had I never started looking.

Nonetheless, I do concur that it might be time to expand the scope of my writing beyond irrational rants, and acrid attacks on easy targets. For help with this most troubling quandary, I now turn to one of my favorite authors, William Faulkner, for assistance. For his 1950 Nobel Banquet speech, Faulkner wrote:

Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only the question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.

We may no longer live under the fear, anguish, and mental oppression of the nuclear brinksmanship of the Cold War, but Faulkner's point still rings as true today as it did in December, 1950. Suddenly, everything is clear. If I have any hope of improving my own writing, and consequently, the Realm, I must wholeheartedly embrace a path of self-destruction. In other words, in quite unequivocal terms, I need to ruin my life; only then can I achieve the mental state necessary to transcend the bullshit angst of worthless individuals, and achieve true, unbridled despondency.

Nihilism and despair, while great goals in theory, are nevertheless easier discussed than embraced. Despite my trite yuppie life and assuredly meaningless existence, the disposable income and lack of responsibilities is hard to discount. What could possibly counteract the joys afforded by petty materialism? Well, for that I'll turn to an excerpt from a poem by Lord Byron:

In secret we met -
In silence I grieve
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee? -
With silence and tears.

It's so painfully obvious! I need to meet the woman of my dreams, fall madly in love, be overwhelmed by hope and joy, and then have the said woman break my heart beyond repair, leaving me in a state of ever-worsening despair, unable to find love or happiness ever again. For regular readers, this scenario may seem decidedly impossible, considering my documented derision towards the concept of love, the open question as to whether I can ever care for another as much as I do for myself, and the rumors that I may not in fact have a heart (or soul). But nothing is impossible, only improbable. I now present the following challenge to women everywhere:

I am seeking a woman to make me fall in love, and subsequently, to ruin my life. At the minimum, you must possess the following qualities:

• Be at least as intelligent as me—I could never fall in love with someone unintelligent.
• Have self-esteem—I hate people constantly seeking validation and I can't be around such people, let alone fall in love with one.
• Successful—accomplishment is hot, being a waste of society's resources is not.
• Not a mess, especially emotional—I want despair, not bullshit.

In return, you will receive:

• My sizable annual electronics and alcohol budgets reappropriated for you during the course of our relationship.
• My uninterrupted attention, loosely translated as romance—flowers, candy, love letters, and all kinds of other stupid shit sappy people care about.
• Dedication as the person to whom I owe it all if I ever become rich and/or famous. There would, of course, also be monetary compensation for the former.
• The warm, fuzzy feeling of having played a vital role in my romantic quest to ruin my life.

As you can see, I'm very serious about this endeavor. Please let me know if you might be interested in assisting me as I attempt to ruin my life, or perhaps know someone well-suited for the task. Like I said before, moving from elitism and cynicism to despair and nihilism isn't going to be easy, but it wouldn't be a quest otherwise.