I’ve got plenty to go on when I make my own morning summations of what the world has in store for me day to day. Most of my worst fears are based on the evil that bakes quietly inside of humankind. It is rare that I give much thought to the micro-critters that would have us serve as their vehicles of choice. And yes, I’ve seen all the very best and worst contagion films. But I am reading The Thin White Line right now, and I have to say–my ability to process the very real implications of something invisible but far more probable than a cracked-out junkie looking to swipe my iShuffle on my way to living an extraordinary existence isn’t very honed. I’ll be working on that to my own detriment and your personal enjoyment, as it pertains to humoring the masses with my anecdotes.
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Success. I could start out this blog with a Webster’s definition, but it’s somewhat irrelevant to me at the moment. I know what success looks like to me. I’m not talking about fancy cars, flashy clothes, and a house on the hills–I’m talking about achieving something of value, doing something well, and reaching an intended goal I suppose. Throughout the years, the incidents that suggest my own standard for deeming something successful might be unrealistic have been many. I’m open to the idea that I hold myself, and perhaps more importantly, the company I keep intentionally or by way of happenstance, to a nearly unachievable bar. I’m not only open to the idea, I’m sure of it. But as of late, I can’t help but wonder if there is something in the water. In fact, many people believe there is indeed something in the water intentionally put there to dumb us down, numb us down, keep us from revolting and in a perpetual state of accepting mediocre results, behaviors, and near misses. I spent years using booze for many reasons, but one of the biggest benefits was its ability to make me simply not care about all the things I thought were wrong about a day, the world, and humanity itself. I’m soap-boxing a bit in this post, and maybe I’ll turn off a few readers in doing so, but when did we decide that almost achieving, half-efforts, and just enough was the best way to live?
If I let my mind go with it–as if I had a choice–it puts me on a speculative path about the impetus behind the sturdy reinforcement of sloth, uninspired efforts, shit-eating grins, and the go-with-the-flow head nodding of many of my fellows. In the rooms, those of us in recovery spend a great deal of time deconstructing all the daily incidents that illustrate the public’s blind-eye to these themes of atrocious mediocrity–even as we, the former drunks, are out there contributing to that general malaise with our own insincere efforts. No one is perfect, no one should be perfect, it would be damn boring. But I do wonder from time to time, if the hero worship of doofuses, slackers, lag-a-bouts, hipsters, just-get-byers, and perpetual selfish has us all brainwashed into thinking that our own efforts are far superior to that of our neighbors. I know I’m guilty of massive amounts of judgmental condemnation on folks I’ve never met. I’m not proud of it, but I’m aware of it. I’d like to open my heart up to all strangers, and believe they are all pulling their weight, carrying their load, and doing it on the up-and-up. I certainly don’t subscribe to a win-at-all-costs mentality. It’s cheap, cheating, and doesn’t suit me. I know this, because I’ve tried it.
The question I guess, at least for me, is will I slowly come to understand that not everything has to be a home-run? For a couple of years, right after getting sober, I was operating well using a suggestion from the rooms that allowed me to let much of what bothered me about myself and others not get too deeply into my head. Was an easier then I think, as I wasn’t quite putting myself out into the world as much as I am now. And my immediate social circle was comprised of brains, both normies and recovering alcoholics, who were living up to a code similar to my own. Again, none of us are or were perfect, but all of my besties were probably living with their own deep resentments towards themselves for not being able to achieve perfection each and every day just like me.
As you look out amongst the landscape you might find just as many people kicking ass as there are sucking ass, but as of late, and I’m not against the idea that it is some chemtrail induced fog thrust upon the citizens of Manhattan, my own experiences seems to suggest the tables are turning in favor or the latter group of which we can refer to as Mediocratrocites. And even as I recognize the benefit of having tons of lazy folks around–after all, it only makes my own efforts shine that much more brightly–I am concerned that this particular malady might just be a much less noticeable version of a flesh-eating virus dropped upon the public for testing. What better way to remain the nations super power then developing a weapon that turns the inhabitants of other nations into drooling dullards.
Is it just me? Most likely. And since I intend on doing just about squat today, who am I to even say?