In this week Doomlund ponders the very fabric of his own existence
Who are you? Who am I?
Actually just forget about the first question (I don’t really care); the latter however, now that’s interesting!
From time to time (usually when I’m not watching TV ) I get in an existential mood. I think about why we’re here, what the grand purpose is and whether or not man will ever evolve to a physical state where it’s possible to fellate yourself without having to remove part of your ribcage (which is a painful procedure!).
A couple of weeks ago I found myself packing up all my stuff because I tricked my girlfriend into letting me move in with her (she thinks I’m joking when I tell her that I’m probably the worst roommate in the universe). Because I’m a slob by nature and posses about as many organizational skills as a mongoloid on heroin I had previously piled up all my personal papers in a huge, intimidating stack of receipts, paychecks and random crap accumulated over the past fifteen years. In short, the paper-version of me was an image of total chaos.
Needless to say I spent the following five hours cleaning everything up and organizing all my papers. “I don’t know what the hell to do,” I called my girlfriend and said. “It’s a mess up here. You know that final scene in ‘Platoon’ where everyone gets blown to bits? Well, this is worse.” My girlfriend, being the sound rational pillar of strength that she is, told me to calm down: “Go to a super market and pick up one those plastic briefcases they sell. You can easily store all your stuff in one of those. And when you’re there pick up a bottle of organic orange juice as well, will you?”.
Quite ingenious idea, I thought. I rushed to the market and back again and started organizing everything. And as it turned out it had quite a therapeutic effect on me. I didn’t understand why, but the more papers I slid into that thing the more grown up I felt. Like I was really on top of things – a smooth cat who handles himself with poise and enough self-confidence to wipe out a small African village. As if organizing things around me meant that I was somehow organizing myself. Composing my identity in a miniature file-cabinet. For a second it felt like I had it all together.
As I left my former apartment I ended an era. I had moved in to that place as a pimply-faced, insecure adolescent whose life was randomly piled up in a corner-stack of papers. But I was leaving it a man. And it was all due to that little briefcase in my hand. In it I had my passport, my insurance policy, my tax papers, my apartment lease contract, my BA diploma, my high school graduation diploma, my sailor’s permit (I took the course one summer when I was thirteen and bored of my ass), my drivers license and every paycheck I’ve ever received. In short, I was in-fact hauling around a portable identity.
That and a bottle of orange juice.
It occurred to me that who you are isn’t really a solid structure of ‘you-ness’. There is no ‘I’ except the one you choose. Once you’ve organized your paper-based identity in a small plastic briefcase you come to that exact realization: that it is just that. A plastic briefcase full of paper.
I guess, it really all comes down to you and your decisions and what image you want to create yourself in. But the prospect of total freedom in that regard can be truly terrifying. If you don’t know who you are then who does?
At the end of the day I choose to remain optimistic (for once). For what it’s worth at least I know I’m the guy who brings my girlfriend organic OJ.
Yours truly, optimist in a blink of an eye,
TD
