I’m a tool.


So much depends upon a life of probability. Whatever happened to the free will of the panglossian fourteen-year-old girl wearing a pretentious black beret who followed some bourgeois trend like some sad puppy dog with mournful eyes (yes, what an embarassing past)? Whatever happened to religiously believing in my will to power and not feeling like a cookie cutter mould? Please convince me that I just don’t happen to be here and that I can still change something and do something other than be a puppet stringed to a panoply of biochemical reactions? Instances of whiny existential crisis at twenty are fucking un-cool. No, the answer is not that I need to get laid.

So no “Make a crack about her celibacy” will be allowed.

You may however cordially send me your existentialist hate threats (like on Naz's blog a while back) or words of wisdom (cuz i got none')below while I sit here and continue listening to Hier Encore and try to drill more useless stuff into this fucking bitter brain.

P.S.: Thanks to Love is a Cunt., I now have an answer to my existential crisis: here.



Anonymous Lunettes Rouges said...

Getting laid won't help, but getting in love might: but it is not as easy, and not always as pleasing.
When I was 20 (just yesterday), the answer to existential questions was usually engagement, often leftist, humanitarian and third-worldish: Che Guevara, Palestine, the boat people, Sarajevo. It can help for a while, but one loses illusions fast, and may even lose oneself after a while.
Maybe just ask yourself what you can give to others: reading pleasure, care, bridging, opening eyes.
In any case, have a wonderful trip and bring us loads of images.

10:33 AM  
Blogger Y said...

My next post tries to explain this existential crisis a little .
I dedicate it to you. :)

"one loses illusions fast, and may even lose oneself after a while." ...one of my greatest fears.

3:13 PM  

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