Monthly Archives: December 2011

The point of deep thoughts

I didn’t do much last weekend, but I did have some deep thoughts. They were about death. I wanted to talk to someone about them so I texted a friend and said, “I got some deep thoughts with your name on ‘em.” When he didn’t write back, I said “Don’t worry, they’re about death.” When he still didn’t write back, I re-read those texts and realized they sounded kind of weird. I texted him as much but he didn’t write back to that, either. Turns out his phone was out of juice.

I would write about the deep thoughts here, but they would take a while to explain and they’re not really that funny. They’re not really that original, either. Instead, they are just riffs on stuff people have been saying since humans could say stuff, as well as stuff I’ve been thinking about and hearing people say since I was a kid. The only difference between these thoughts about death and the thoughts I was having about death at age 17 is that I understand the world better now and am less impressed by how clever I am for having thought deep thoughts. Less, but not not. I don’t understand why even thinking has to be embarrassing.

As I thought these thoughts, I thought about how easy it was to think them. Then I thought about all the times I’d heard them said before, and wondered how so many people were allowed to use up so many words to say the exact same things about death. When I finally found a friend to talk about my deep thoughts with, I realized three things: a) you need a good segueway to talk about death; b) things that make perfect sense in your head make exponentially less sense out loud; c) figuring out how to say them is 90% of the point of saying them at all.

For example, lots of the stuff I thought about was a variation on stuff I’d read in Being and Time. My edition of Being and Time is 488 pages long. I think you could probably summarize the whole shebang in about 20 pages. The other 468 pages are not that fun to read, but they help you to understand the 20 pages that actually make points and aren’t just Heidegger explaining how he’s going to make his points. That’s a pretty simple reading of Being and Time, so it may not surprise you to learn that I haven’t actually read all 488 pages.

But if Heidegger had just written 20 pages of maxims like, “things are the sum of their parts,” not many readers would understand him the way he wanted to be understood. They’d understand him however they wanted to understand him. Those 468 pages are 468 pages of insistence that you see things Heidegger’s way. I wish Heidegger had seen things in a funnier way, and I also wish he hadn’t been a Nazi, but neither wish changes the fact that he was a lot smarter than I am on matters unrelated to genocide. So it was worth the trouble to read however many pages of Being and Time I read.

When I think about Being and Time, I feel a lot like the way I felt this weekend when I stopped thinking my deep thoughts and decided to get some eggs. I had thought through some points and probably understood the world a little better for having done so, but understanding is a very small part of what you have to do to get through life. Furthermore, every point anyone has ever made has been made 50 prillion times in the history of human civilization, in 50 prillion different ways. I say “prillion” because I don’t know the word for that many. Louis CK has probably made points that Heidegger made in Being and Time. He probably made them through jokes about his kids, which makes sense, because kids have made points that Heidegger made in Being and Time.

My point is that having a point is important, but not that important. The way you get to the point is probably more important. That’s kind of one of the points I had about death, and I think it’s one of the points that Heidegger had about death as well, except that he was a serious German who understood Greek and I am a silly Canadian who watches a lot of Louis CK. Unfortunately I am neither as smart as Heidegger nor as funny as Louis CK, which is why I’m not going into my deep thoughts.


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Dog nipples

The other day, a friend and I got to talking about bitches. He remarked on how much bitches like it when you touch their nipples. I thought about that for a while and it made me incredibly uncomfortable.

I love dogs a lot. I’ve never had a dog of my own, so I can get pretty gooey around other people’s dogs. Often dogs don’t like me because they can sense my desperation and it weirds them out. That just feeds my love of dogs, because they’re so humany in ways you wouldn’t even expect.

One way that dogs are not humany, though, is their nipples. Humans have two nipples, but dogs can have like ten. Sometimes ten baby dogs will attach themselves to a mother dog’s nipples and that is an incredibly freaky thing to see. It’s uncanny, because the mother dog is doing one of the most human things in a seriously unhuman way. It’s also humiliating, because the mother dog is still five times the woman I am.

More than that, dog nipples are nipples. Nipples are difficult to talk about, because nipples serve two functions that are very separate functions. I would like to keep those functions as separate as possible, but I can’t, because I only have one set of nipples and they have to do both things. I’d like to think that if I had five sets of nipples I could reserve at least one for the function that is not giving nourishment to babies, but I don’t see dogs doing that.

This is probably why I am weird about my nipples. There is a picture of me standing next to my mother and grandmother in which my nipples are hard. It was cold out that day, but I still don’t like it one bit. I also don’t like it when certain people touch my nipples, such as boyfriends who have crossed the intimacy threshold into familyville. The wrongest thing I can possibly imagine is a family member touching my nipples, and yet that’s exactly why I have them.

The worst part is that nourishing family is the primary function of nipples. The other part is just a bonus feature. It’s like nature gave us a paring knife that can also be used as a dildo. Nature is incredibly weird, which itself is weird to think, because I come from nature. But the human brain is like a rebellious teenager who hates its parents and still ends up on the box factory line. Right now I’m having a great time treating my body like an amusement park. But one day a baby might rip itself out of my body and attach itself to my nipples, and then nature will be laughing.

Nature is not only weird, but shitty, because it programmed the human brain to find it disgusting. It programmed us with a concept of aesthetics, and then covered everything with little hairy germs and made us run on slime. It programmed us with a concept of decency, then packed us full of giant wormy tubes that produce shit. It programmed us to not want to have sex with family members and then based the whole family thing on sex.

Dogs are comforting, because even though they’re humany, they’re more natural than us. So even though it’s gross to watch a dog shit in public, it’s comforting to know that I would never do that. Another comforting thing is pleasure, which kind of sticks it to nature by treating bonus features as primary functions. Then I think about dogs getting off on having their million nipples touched and I remember that the natural world is one giant boggy morass and that I’m literally full of shit.


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