Show me somebody that has said that (the title of this post) and I’ll show you a liar.
Everyone cares about others think about them. If you don’t, then you’re a legit sociopath.
In fact, concern for what other people think is the cornerstone of civilization. We wear the clothes we wear because of this. Observe and obey laws. We have fucking language because of this!
But people say these things because they want to shield off their empathy, and by wearing the “i dont care what people think” badge, they believe they’re fooling you. Yet clearly they do care, because they tell you all the time. Obviously they want you to think something about them.
Unfortunately the human psyche just can’t shut off its concern for others, and the ego can’t lock out its concern for what others think of it. Our whole sense of self is based upon our relations to others.
Of course I’m not saying that we should be paralyzed by fear over other’s opinions. Perhaps a more accurate statement would be “I am who I am”, and coming to terms with the fact that it’s impossible to please everybody.
While I was reading Sigmund Freud’s Civilization and its Discontents, I was introduced to the term credo quia absurdum, translated as “I believe because it is absurd.”
The phrase is usually attributed to Tertullian in reference to Christian belief.
However, I have said many times before that the mechanism of religious belief has been franchised out to other forms of belief, specifically in the political realm. This process is exacerbated by constant internet usage.
Naturally, this causes further consternation within civilization because we know intellectually that the internet isn’t real, but our relationship and understanding of the real world is constantly being shaped by it.
When this contradiction is pointed out, there’s an almost violent psychological reaction to it because it undermines our entire understanding of self and society. And to maintain this flawed understanding, we double down on our patently false assumptions.
Therefore this “credo quia absurdum” becomes the de facto mode of political/religious discourse.
The phones were ringing off the hook. Everyone was missing something: cat, dog, prosthetic arm, leg, penis, you name it. Business was booming.
But I needed help. I was on the phone all the time. Not solving cases.
Isabella brought in lunch: a Philly cheesesteak from Tony’s off 5th Avenue.
“Gee mister,” Isabella said. “After I sent a butthole pic to that producer on the internet, I’ve been getting all kinds of acting job offers!”
“That’s good to hear Izzy,” I replied. “But you can call me James.”
The calls kept coming. I couldn’t keep up. Unfortunately, between the court fees, medical bills, fines owed to the state of California for burning down a nature preserve, and replacing the window in my office after a man fell through it, I couldn’t afford help.
“Say James,” Izzy said. “You look swamped. Since you saved my life and all, the least I could do is help you out with your business.”
“Oh you’re a lifesaver Izzy. I had to let go of my secretary the other day. If you could sit at her desk and answer phones, that would be great. Just ignore the calls with a Sacramento area code,” I replied.
As I was explaining the job, Sgt. LP Anderson of the LAPD called.
“What do you know about Franco De Werner?” Anderson asked.
“He’s around 5’10.5 with a great head of hair. He’s the biggest arms manufacturer on this side of the Mississippi. He’s been a financier of various counter-revolutionary movements in South and Central America. In fact, his eye got shot out in Nicaragua for which he now wears an eye patch. He’s earned a reputation as a solid middleman between the CIA and various fruit companies in war-torn countries. He graduated summa cum laude from Emory, earned an MBA from Wharton. His wife is Becky, they have two children ages 15 and 18. His drink of choice is Kentucky Bourbon, and he enjoys the works of Dostoyevsky. Otherwise I don’t know much,” I said.
“Well the FBI called, seems like a shipment of Werner’s has gone missing en route to Costa Rica. If you provide your assistance, the FBI said they’ll drop their investigation into you. I’m assuming you know they’re talking about,” Anderson asked.
I sighed.
“Very well,” I said. “Tell your FBI contact that I’ll set up a meeting with Franco De Werner.” I hung up the phone.
“Lazy bastards,” I thought to myself.
I went to Izzy. “I need you to gather all the information you can find on Franco De Werner. Print it off and slide it under the door of the bathroom. I’ll be in there for awhile,” I instructed.
The Philly cheesesteak went out as fast as it went in.
“Weaver’s my name. Dick Weaver,” the tall burly Scotsman told me. “I was a whaler fer 13 year. Been a private eye fer 15.”
The man was covered in hair from head to toe. He wore only plaid. And denim.
His jeans were tight.
I put out an add for a roommate to help with rent. Dick was the only one who responded.
Dick sat down, pulled a cracker out of his toboggan, then started munching.
“Listen here young lad, let’s set some ground rules. Me bein a private dick, I do ne wanchya snoopin around me business. If I catch ya, I’ll kill ya. If I see ya sippin on me Irn-bru, I’ll kill ya. If I catch ya eatin me powsowdie, I’ll eat yur cock for breakfast,” he told me.
“Fair enough,” I said.
After I showed him his bedroom, he grunted for a bit and then slammed the door. I went to bed.
The next morning, Dick was hanging up clandestinely taken pictures of naked women on the wall.
“You said you were a private eye, right?” I asked.
“Aye”
“Is this a special case you’re working on?” I inquired.
“What business is that of yurs? Eh boy? Ask again an I’ll crack open ye noggin!” Dick angerly retorted.
“I was just asking. Jesus!”
That night, I was lying in bed when I heard some stomping around then considerable hootin’ n hollerin’ outside. It was none of my business. Hours later, Dick came stumbling into my room drunk as all get-out.
“Aye boy, I got to bein pissed at the pub an met a nice ol hen behin tha bar. Aye brought er here but she got to slippin digits n me hole. Aye it was a’right first but then I shat me britches,” he said.
“So you were smashing ass and then you shit the bed?”
“Aye. I cannae sleep because the sheets are covered in shite.”
“Well climb on in.”
Dick got under the covers. We shared a shot of whisky and a few tales of his time at sea before falling fast asleep.
The next morning, I awoke to find Dick wide awake and his hair-swirled chest in full view. I was fully clothed.“Top of the mornin’ to ya,” he said.
He climbed out of bed and his buttcheeks were beaten blood red.
“Aye boy,” Dick said. “I s’pose I should be congratulatin ya. You rammed me a new one!”
World renowned sex pervert Woody Allen said that “80 percent of success is just showing up”.
He’s right.
Throughout my career I’ve just shown up and someone hands me a paycheck. Occasionally I’ll smile and nod and blow smoke up my boss’s ass, but mostly just being physically present has been the secret to my financial security (and occasionally lack thereof).
Now it could be that my bosses think I might become a workplace shooter if they fire me, but I’ve never been terminated due to tardiness (viewing porn on a work computer is a different story).
So people often ask me “you’re poor as shit! How are you not living under a bridge?”
Well let me tell ya: budgeting and selling unused prescription pain medications.
What’s the point of buying a $60,000 Cadillac if you can’t occasionally live in it? Now shoplifting is rarely a good idea. You’d know this if you’ve ever spent enough time in Clark County, NV. And it’s completely unnecessary. Why risk jail time when you can just sell butthole pics to some Saudi “businessman”? If they blackmail you later, just say that the joke’s on them.
But I digress.
Living within your means is easy. In fact, it’s easier than spending money. All you gotta do is nothing! Dumbass.
I told my ex-wife years ago that all I need are two things: my toothbrush and my Glock 19. She left me for a Saudi oilman and tried to extort child support from me. But I told her that I ain’t paying that shit.
I still love her though. Baby, if you’re reading this, I’ll take you back whenever you’re ready but I ain’t ever gonna stop drinking.
So prioritize what’s important to you. Because that’s the secret to financial success.
The Internet Ruined Everything 