I don't think I have a stomach for beauty anymore. I've grown to resent it, actually. I want to be surrounded by ugliness.
But it's a Catch-22, really. Kind of like Oscar the Grouch, I guess. Oscar hated being happy, so he was angry all the time. But being angry pleased him, so in effect his anger was actually happiness. If I choose to surround myself with ugliness, then that will essentially become my standard for beauty, and I'll be some sort of twisted non-Muppet version of Oscar, sans trash can.
I used to love rainy days. Much better than the sunny ones, I'd argue. But there's a beauty there - the clouds, the rhythmic sound of the drops, the occaisional illumination from a lightening strike - so I've even grown to hate what was once the standard for an ugly day. Give me the uncomfortable muggy heat of mid-August, where the sky is blurry and the sun obscurred by pollution. There's no beauty there. Only discomfort.
And that's fucking perfect.
"Oh, I love trash..."
But it's a Catch-22, really. Kind of like Oscar the Grouch, I guess. Oscar hated being happy, so he was angry all the time. But being angry pleased him, so in effect his anger was actually happiness. If I choose to surround myself with ugliness, then that will essentially become my standard for beauty, and I'll be some sort of twisted non-Muppet version of Oscar, sans trash can.
I used to love rainy days. Much better than the sunny ones, I'd argue. But there's a beauty there - the clouds, the rhythmic sound of the drops, the occaisional illumination from a lightening strike - so I've even grown to hate what was once the standard for an ugly day. Give me the uncomfortable muggy heat of mid-August, where the sky is blurry and the sun obscurred by pollution. There's no beauty there. Only discomfort.
And that's fucking perfect.
"Oh, I love trash..."