Thank You

Dear Advice Columnist,

Thanks for making me feel like a lousy bag of trash I fought so hard all my life NOT to be. Thanks for driving home the message that I fell short, that I just didn't measure up. To your requirements, your expectations, to others. Thanks for just stepping all over my self worth, that floor mat's a keeper. That's my dignity you carelessly stabbed multiple times with your fancy pen-knife and elitist attitude. Let me roll that up and put it away meekly, with the all the grace of one who was just asked to receive the key to the city. Would you like me to lick your boots as a nice thank-you-gesture? I know I'm intact, nothing that you do or did or will do can actually change that, but thanks for making me feel like it's changed all the same. I feel lousy. I feel like I am lousy. What do you expect people to think when they look at this scenario? Simple. They'll see the mark on my face where you just gave me a tight slap. They'll worship those other ones you approved of, and they'll shake their heads in pity at me. It's just wonderful. What a hauntingly beautiful sight. I don't know why I'm even wasting my time agonising over this. You waste my time, the same way you told me that I was a waste of your time. Take your wonderful legacy, your pretty ideals, your fantastic philosophies and get the hell out of here. Get lost.

I feel so stupid whenever I read advice columns. They have all the answers to life. Answers that I couldn't figure out, answers I probably never will have the key to unlock. The embarrasing thing is, I always looked down on them. I always thought they were nosy little know-alls who gave generic advice that would help no one.

So to the advice columnists out there. Whether you give crappy advice or not, you've earned my respect. I'm still angry and humiliated, because you figured out things I never did. To think that I believed I was more intelligent than most. This new found respect I'm giving to you has an expiration date. When my paycheck's value exceeds yours, I'm going back to the way things were in the beginning.

Mr Brightside

It's a new year. Year 2009. An end. A new beginning. A beginning/end. Doesn't feel too new to me. For some reason, the beginning of 2009 feels an awful lot like the end of 2008.


Looked out of my window. Things look pretty much the same. Same grimy window through which i never could see much since 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008 or 2009. Transparency absent. Clarity of purpose absent. The faintest clue of any direction one should move to in terms of progress absent. I'm absent.

Absent-minded? Perhaps. But I'm absent. I'm the College student who didn't turn up for my writing class. The one the professor keeps looking for, is always there, but never really is. I'm absent. I was absent, still am absent, and probably will be for most of the future. I'm not here.

So don't come knocking on my door. You won't find me. Until I do, you won't have any luck at it.

That's why 2008 was somewhat a lost year for me. I filed a missing person's report. They told me that after 48 hours of absence, chances that I would find what I lost in good condition would have significantly depleted. It's 2009 now. I should just give up on finding the solutions, or the answers. I wonder why everyone around me still keeps trying, though.

Lost purpose. I may be lost, but I'm not lost. I have a purpose to fulfil. I know what that purpose is, and I'm doing all I can to make sure that purpose would become my next achievement, the next plaque I would place on the mantelpiece, next to the 20 others. 20 others that have lost their shine. 20 others that have 20 hundred million specks of dust wiped off them every week or so.

3 weeks. That's all of the time I have left to torture myself with. While I'm at it, feel free to jump in. Grab guilt and throw a handful at me. Since I'm going through the whole torture chamber routine, you might want to lend a helping hand. Your last chance to do so. 3 weeks after this, I'm throwing it all back. It's high time you faced your guilt by then.

Put your finger on it. Read the terms and conditions printed between the lines. Cut that finger and let the single drop of blood land on that contract you're about to sign, as the papercut won't be deep enough for you to feel any actual pain. You have been desensitised. No emotion, no nothing. Everything's pretty simple. You're lost. You sign the contract that would bind you to something earthly, something that would still be around for the next 50 years. That way, the lack of meaning in your life would have some meaning injected into it somehow. That drop of scarlet ink, that speck of blood, makes the agreement you put your signature to complete.

Now you're complete. I'm complete. And we're still lost. We smile anyway. It makes sense. Even if we aren't happy, it's good to think we are. If not for ourselves, it would make others think we are happy. Gives them reason to be happy, or to think they are happy.

Still lost? Hell yeah.

Instead of looking to the bright side, why bother? Look into the deepest, darkest recesses of your soul and note the truths you face everyday. Don't forget to read the lies that were written between the lines. That's the way to look at life. That's the way Mr Brightside would have looked at it anyway.

Happy New Year, once again. You are happy, right?

Mr Brightside - The Killers