fucking up the socializing game

I feel as if I’ve made a game out of socializing. It is as if every time I end the game, I end up with a high score each time. Like a really high score. I’ve developed routines: smile genuinely, listen carefully, laugh a good amount of times at the right times, and give utter sincerity. Sometimes I give a little punch, or a little pat on the shoulder to show affection. Maybe banter a bit. Express a slight annoyance at their insignificant errs that is at the same time playful. Never get angry; instead, give direction through play and by example. Most of all, never act. Be genuine.

All that’s great and all, but again: routine. I win and I win again, by doing the same exact things. It got old and empty and somewhat boring. I then became less willing to socialize. Conversations were dull and pointless. I talked less. So in fact, I started acting. I told the same story I told the last person, which I told to the next person, attempting to tell it with the same tone of voice and animated movements each time. Socializing started to become a chore, and I was only doing it out of habit; out of at least maintaining the status-quo with regards to how much people have affection for me. Then that grew old and empty and boring. It felt as if was I experiencing a little less of life.

I’ve realized, however, that I was too comfortable winning, and I’ve forgotten that winning isn’t all there is to life. I should fuck around with life. Win a different way. Or don’t win, that’s fine. There is too much sense in winning. Fuck it all up so that there is no sense. Play games within the game.

For instance, when their talk gets dull, I might laugh and say, “You are so strange,” just to confuse them. I might use a different accent for some stranger I meet–my waiter, maybe. I might pronounce a word in a sentence wrong, and then let them correct me, and then argue with them. When they try to argue about something trivial, I might start talking about fjord horses, and gay earrings, and leprechauns shitting skittles, just to frustrate them. Well see the thing is, when Nietzsche dreams, he dreams about Morgan Freeman giving him a unicorn in heaven, which then gallops him across a rainbow to get to a pot of golden dildos. Freud would have much to say about that. 

Perhaps a little too extreme (I can already see you furrowing your eyebrows). So if I’m trying to be a bit more serious, I might argue, but I won’t argue with the same concepts and subjects, I will argue instead with metaphors. As many as I can possibly use. You just can’t put pineapples on my pizza. That’s like putting nutella on a taco. Nutella is great. I love nutella. But I love it alone. I also love it on ice cream and crepes. Nutella on something like crepes is like wearing vertical stripes if you’re short, they just compliment each other. I’ve never liked arguing too much anyway (no one ever gets anywhere with it).


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s