You guys know “Young&Twenty”?
It’s gotten to the point that when I wake up in the morning, I no longer immediately check out “Huffington Post”.
I’ll go check out what the current incarnation of Ol’ Jules or Y&T or a hopefully bright-eyed Mandi or Dohn or a few others of you have to say for yourselves.
Then I’ll worry about checking out the sad state of affairs of my Fantasy Baseball League team (“Los Cialistos”) or the rest of the world
That link up top here is to her most recent post. Check it out, then come on back here.
So these thoughts came to my mind.
Hey there, kid.
Funny you should mention this.
Back when I was roughly your age, I was in the middle of extensive research on this subject.
My feeling has always been that no matter how ugly and catastrophic some of one’s actions in life might be, as long as you learn something from them, you may properly classify them as “research”. Otherwise, they’re to be rightfully categorized as “fuck-ups”, eh?
There are very few things that are actually easier when you’re drunk:
1) getting pulled over by the cops three blocks away from the middle of nowhere;
2) doing karaoke to that damned Celine Dion song from “Titanic”;
3) voiding your bladder in your sleep;
4) similarly evacuating your bowels;
5) entering wet t-shirt contests, and God bless each and every one of you who were justified in doing so, The rest of you need to stop drinking immediately;
6) hiding the pain as opposed to easing it;
among others, but most notably…
7) just plain not giving a shit.
There is something to be said for Number 7, and some of you young ladies might want to give serious consideration to Number 5.
Thank you in advance on behalf of frat boys around the world.
As far as not giving a shit, there is a veritable plethora of things we really, truly should not have to give a shit about.
Like we folks south of the border:
my wife and I should not have to give a shit about the thousands of dollars it might cost us so she can have the back surgery that will make it possible for her to walk more than fifty feet at a time without sitting on the stool built in to her walker. And to be able to do it up in the hills. Or down on the beach, hunting for sand dollars with our grandson.
Or to be able to sit in a car long enough to visit our grandson.
In some less prosperous yet far more civilized and compassionate countries around the world, people don’t have to give a shit about such things.
Yet we do because it would brutalize the national coffers leaving us less money to invade Iraq or Syria or Whathefuckistan.
We should also not have to give a shit about global warming and the satellite pictures of Greenland actually rendering its image in green, nor about the rain forests or the cross-continent pipelines.
In those examples, “not giving a shit” means “not worrying about”, and sometimes we must give more than just a routine shit.
Then there are times when “not giving a shit” figuratively means “not giving a shit”.
Kimye, Bieber, the sexual proclivities of some catty bitch we have to work with, political squabbles in countries most of us have never heard of that can do us no harm, Bieber, who’s wearing what on the runways of Paris, whether you spell “among” with or without a “u”, the disappointing finales to a television series (and I don’t give a shit what people say, the last two-and-a-half hours of “L O S T” were brilliant)…
Not giving a shit doesn’t make you vulnerable as much as it frees you from caring about being vulnerable, and that can be advantageous at times:
I don’t give a shit who knows I have Depression, Anxiety and ADD. That releases me from having to bear the weight of the stigma of Mental Illness on my shoulders. Sure, I still am a victim of such unenlightened idiocy… but I don’t give a shit.
The big reason I don’t give a shit is that I’ve taken all the fun out of it for people who try to saddle me with that stigma, their stupidity holding the reins.
Trust me: I’ve made more jokes about my Mental Illness than others have made smarmy remarks behind my batshit-crazy ass. They should give more of a shit about their callous, mindless, thoughtless, ignorant prejudices than I do, but they don’t, and guess what?
I don’t give a shit.
And I don’t think it makes me more vulnerable. Might even make me stronger during those times I need to be.
Getting drunk does indeed let your guard down, which can open you to vulnerability if you’re not careful, and can indeed open you up to unjustified trust. Anyone who shows up at your table with a pitcher of Margaritas does so on a beam of light, their feet never having touched the floor. How can you not trust them?
That can easily culminate in a marked variety of vulnerability that does come to mind as having been the result of a world-class bender that can subsequently result – forty weeks later – in a child who, by all rights, should be named “Jäger”.
So there are most assuredly instances when vulnerability and trust from chemically induced bravado can follow you through the years.
Same could be said about not giving a shit if and when you don’t take not giving a shit seriously enough to consider the difference between when it results from not caring and when it results from not having to care.
Being unable to discern the difference between the two is something about which one really needs to give a good, healthy, fully considered, breathtaking shit.
“You don’t crave the alcohol as much as you crave the freedom it gives you. It’s the sort of existence reality deprives you of.”
Sometimes the alcohol takes away your freedom.
I learned that from an eight-year fuck-up, not research.
I will acknowledge, though, that on a short-term emergency basis only, some of life’s realities can most effectively be dealt with by firmly attaching them to a barrel of fine Kentucky sour mash and tossing it overboard. Fill up the bong and watch it drift down to exile within the seaweed-strewn depths of Davey Jones’ locker.
The problem there is the inevitable return of those realities when you are meandering through your preferred reality and they are hiding behind the biggest tree around the bend, and all you’ve got with you is your bottle of charcoal-filtered water, your iPod and your fanny pack filled with some trail mix and four sheets of biodegradable butt-wipe.
Reality is the most deviously sneaky of all recognized cosmic mindfuckers.
When you’ve fully committed yourself to not giving a shit about certain things, it doesn’t matter where or how well they hide themselves. Doesn’t make a difference when they come out from behind some two-thousand-year-old Redwood screaming “Bazinga!!!!”
’cause you rightly don’t give a shit.
Just make sure about the “rightly” part of it and things should remain cool.
And the best part of all of this?
No need to be “normal” to embrace it.
Would defeat the purpose.