Ramen Philosophique

Fuck it. I am too tired of self-censoring in the worry of appearing vane, monotonous, reactionary, or whatever the hell i thought of when I read that pompous, unusually delusional, and hopelessly unoriginal and inarticulate ass of a “writer” La Rochefoucauld and some other half-witty half-cynical bullshit that was so much of western classics. They were cynical I get it. But be cynical in style my dear dude.

What the hell. I self-repressed for years just because I didn’t want to be put in the same category as La Roach in my own fucking head. How bad do you have to be for me to be soo wary of any seemliness to you? God you ruined cynicism for all of us. And now what ever I said you are tainted in it forever.

Go fuck yourself. Ahhh maybe you were so limp that you couldn’t even do that you shithead.

Okay it wasn’t just him, okay? This whole business of writing and dissimulating is so mind-boggling to me. If you were doing it for the sake of transcendence, then just DO it already, which spend years writing about it? It’s not like you were making it anymore accessible; the absolute fucking opposite if anything. If not, then it was just some salon credit that you were accumulating. Especially for some rich good-for-nothing like La Roach, ugh. Spinoza probably had a fucking CALLING for writing. You and your lot? Unselfconscious high class propogandists and parasites of collective human world-making and self-knowledge. Ugh.

But what’s so hard to admit is that I have the exact same fucking urges. To sound witty, to sound sharp, to sound like this world is worth nothing, so rotten that total annihilation would be better than any possible incremental betterment. DOLPHINES can probably do better than us. Okay, these shitheads probably cannot. Anyroad.

This urge to be a critique is really so vain, not even in the subjective sense of vanity but that it is just vain to be a critique without being able to articulate the sublation of the criticized. For all that thinking can be, especially the branch of thinking that tries to claim the moniker and the domain of something remotely universal, critique that does not result in any worldly changes is so empty. Cultural critics get a point over the philosophical ones on this issue because at least some playwright will enter into a dialectic with the critic, however nonsensible they sound, and the product will be affected SOMEHOW, regardless of for good or for bad.

When philosophers criticize each other? Is this the original form of circlejerk? Has anybody ever attempted to count the number of research magazines available in the humanities and “social ‘sciences’”? And I thought Summa was a enormous mistake… In the rare occasion that philosophers actually exit their craft of circular self-pleasantry and say something facing the world. Their voices are drowning out so quickly and so powerlessly that unless one makes a spectacle–meaning this time jerking the speaker holders and the perpetual-novelty-seeking-milk-sucking consumer babies–their attempt to talking is just like any other voices in the market of ideas. A weak and invisible thread in the infinitely whirling and self-weaving fabric of pleonexia and assimilating domination.

What use is thinking and words when their substantiation is no different from the lack there of? The aftertaste of nullity only makes everything bitterer.

But ha, the catch is that if you are like me, who seems to just have such an overabundance of self-consciousness, the bitterness does not just dissipate because I try to remain silent. The urge comes, the counter-urges quiets, the reminder that all of this is pointless also comes, and the self-pitying attempt at gathering hope rots faster and faster every time this cycle cycles. AND IT CYCLES SO QUICKLY.

So distractions distractions and distractions. Disassociations displacements deflations. Alas no amount of “De”s detract the disquietments. So maybe I try another approach to hold on to the laughable hope. I try, despite my disgust of La Roach, to say the cynical vain unoriginal ineffective-against-this-totality bitching shit that’s been enlivening and fermenting in my guts for years.

Don’t expect yogurt and wine though. Best I can do moldy bread.

Enjoy at your own peril.