Everything has to be something else. Actually, everyone has to be something you don’t expect. When everyone can be anything, nothing and no one becomes interesting. Novelty walks by and it’s a sore—tamp down on that bump of discoloration until it’s flat. It isn’t so bad that some men are smarter than most women, it’s also not so bad that some men are stupider than most women, because intelligence is value-neutral. You read that right, but read it again. Or, to reword it: high intelligence is preferable in some situations, in others, it’s not. A shipwrecked string theorist can’t do much if he doesn’t know how to hunt and create fire, and knowing the ins and outs of string theory aren’t going to help. All of it goes deeper than that but I don’t have the time right now. Have a penis? Chop that alien protuberance off and get co-dependent: get into the habit of being responsible for the happiness of everyone around you. Have a vagina? Cement over that disgusting wound and set your clenched jaw against complete strangers for the approval of a harridan gender studies professor. Reality can only be tolerable as a flat, inoffensive, unlined paper, upon which no one may strike a mark.
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Yeah, let’s hear it for tabula rasa.
One of the worst psych theories I’ve come across, and that’s saying a lot.
But if you add purple hair to the gray mush, it’s magical.
You had purple hair once, didn’t you?
No. When I was eighteen, I dyed my hair with Kool Aid for the heck of it (it only lasts a few weeks), but it turned out a pinkish strawberry blonde. Otherwise, I really only like natural colors.
I never got into the colors. I was more of a straight bleached guy.