Abandoning the normal flavor of CDE posts, the Curious Subject is compelled to present a different mindset. A hypothetical character will be a guest scribbler today, and they will most likely represent themselves in a blunt, ugly, selfish, narcissistic, stubborn and purposeful way with no regard for any side of any story except their own. You are encouraged to interpret the introduction as a disclaimer. Niceties and explanations out of the way, the Curious Subject now yields the symbolic floor to a Hypothetical Character.
Regardless of how staunchly, vehemently and utterly sure someone may be in their convictions, if they are unable to present irrefutable evidence supporting it, then their truth remains a mere viewpoint and is available for debunking and ridicule by those representing opposing opinions. In regards to this particular Flavor of conversation, I can honestly only convey the recollections, musings and experiences which were/are truth to me, regardless of how flagrantly I neglect to take into account the viewpoints of others involved. They are not discarded due to any doubt regarding whether or not another opinion(s) existed. Whenever the specific Flavor of conversation arose, it was blazingly clear that everyone involved had a theory which differed from my own, as is their right. It is quite possible that Their personal interpretation of the situation was more correct than my own, just as it is quite plausible that my opinions, despite the sole conveyance here, were misguided and laughably erroneous. What can be surmised (subject to interpretation of course) from the repeated interactions on a particular Flavor of topic that was under debate, will be roughly hewn together and thoroughly tainted with personal bias and narcissism.
Countless and repeated references were made to my swarm of Minions: irresponsibility, lack of motivation, immaturity, spite, selfishness, thoughtlessness, laziness, absence of discipline, self-indulgence. The general consensus seemed to be that these evil Minions were the explanation for an otherwise perplexing situation. Logically, I always have, and still do understand the soundness and sensibility of this conclusion, and bear no malice towards those who repeatedly squawked this in my ears. After all, what other explanation could anyone be expected to find given the facts of the Flavor? I did not refute them; my silence was intended to be heard as agreement, merely to reduce the lifespan of these conversations, and so it was heard as such.
The majority of people are well aware of the fact that some fabled individual will exceed their personal performance. However it is generally frowned upon to admit and/or accept that someone, somewhere, is destined to outperform you in (most likely) every aspect of ability and skill. To make peace with this likelihood is an excuse for laziness. That is giving up. That is having a defeatist attitude. That is finding a justification to not give your all. That explains your previous subpar performances- you don’t even care enough to try.
My hypothetical sibling, in this case, was constantly spoken of with a wistful tone of nostalgia, followed by a sad smile that was always directed at me. It was as if I were personally offending Them by not fulfilling the expectation-orgasm that formed when they recognized my last name. Of course I failed to live up to the impersonal expectations stirred within the well-intentioned, yet fantastically pompous windbags who spoke of this to me. Out of all of my Minions, it was universally decided that Spite was the driving force behind these failures. Their words were interpreted through my ears as if my sibling only stooped to walk the realm of mortals to raise the standards of a meaningless, petty, sad little slice of life.
The hypothetical sibling is brilliant, charismatic, ambitious, clever, determined and inventive. The hypothetical sibling can change the world if they so desire. How utterly offensive then, to hear the purpose of such a individual, theoretical or not, boiled down to a mere performance standard in a miniscule sliver of life, spoken of with the reverence of a demi-god. The snobbery and bigheadedness endorsed a flagrant disinterest regarding who the hypothetical sibling is/was as a person, and it never improved. The general impression I was left with was the following: you are no one until you are someone of use to Them, and should that happen, you have no right to be anyone other than the someone who tickles Their fancy. Truth be told, I wanted to open up the desk drawer, cram The smug little head in there and slam it repeatedly until The face stopped warbling that condescending, insulting noise and Their tiny facet of life became incinerated by sheer perspective, spilling those obnoxious flower pens onto the ground and rolling into chaos. Hypothetically of course.
Of course there were Those who interpreted my characteristic behavior as a personal affront, convinced They were somehow alone in not receiving what They felt was owed to Them. The ranks of my Minions expanded, welcoming into the fold: arrogance, undeserved pride and the notion of superiority. (Frolic nicely with the other intentional flaws my wee, anxious newcomers.) With no small amount of relief, I can now present my viewpoint on this topic. Those egotistical whelps who theatrically bemoaned my refusal to please, were unable to fathom the mere possibility that my hours did not revolve around formulating new and inventive plots with which to utterly screw Them with Their pants on.
Ignoring the narrow gaze of my relation to the hoops through which every fish flops, a broader glance expands my irksome traits even farther. I failed to obey the societal rules of Their pack, although it must be said that I never went out of my way to do so. On more than one occasion, it was brought to my attention that the manner in which I clothed my body was displeasing. It seemed then, as it still seems now, that gracefully ignoring this recommendation to reduce friction was the only way to preserve my festering scrap of dignity. It was shockingly easy to refuse the chance to don a jeweled collar and thus blend in flawlessly with the pack of carefully pedigreed, absurdly groomed, flippantly vain and utterly pampered jocks and aspiring housewives. Initially, my disgust for the suggested attire was worth a hearty chuckle. As if I could loathe myself enough to agreeably become a tube of delusional skank-paste, crammed into the signature pants so painfully tight, that calves are squeezed into thighs, thighs are squeezed into gut and the midsection as a whole nonchalantly drapes over the waistband with a drunkenly delayed sort of confidence. If my clothed body was an eyesore in this disgustingly unnatural pack then I can honesty say that my offense could not have been avoided even if decades passed and my chest could tuck into my shoes.
Even in hindsight, increased objectivity has yet to yield a comprehensive response to Those who began weaving unrelated topics, such as attire, into the hated Flavor of conversation. The decision making process leading up to a meshing of one species of failure with another still escapes me. Perhaps They believed that the two were related or feeding off of one another? Were They trying to emphasize the communal displeasure of my performance with actions unrelated, or was it my presence altogether? Maybe They were compelled to further highlight and accentuate how poorly I integrated myself into the situation as a whole. What seems like gross overkill to me may have been a solid and satisfying victory to Them. Perhaps my behavior was mystifying to some extent, and the resulting unease raised hackles in the ranks? It must be noted that despite numerous hours spent enduring various presentations of my Minions and flaws of choice, not once was I asked for an explanation. Therefore discomfort awoken by the unknown seems like a less feasible motive. Despite the pack’s general hubbub, I did not display any of the aggression or loathing which I felt for Them as a whole. I was quiet, never stepping on anyone’s delicate toes, stayed out of the way, never participated in, encouraged, or even knew about any drama or misbehavior within the jeweled collar puppy pack.
How utterly befuddling that I could be so repulsive when I so carefully hid, behind a sweet little smile, my urge to lock the doors to the building, feed it to ravenous flames, and contentedly relish the sight of a perfect little society clamoring at the pristine windows of a perfect little building, with perfect primal terror on each bright little face when They start to bubble and singe, until wispy dunes of ash, uniformly perfectly wretched, mark where each one stood.
