It’s probably a little sick.
In fact, it’s a lot of sick.
I seem derive some sort of strange giddy pleasure by having people I find despicable in my life. Whereas most people seek to rid their existence of those they despise the most, I relish, in a twisted manner, having such people float, parade-like, as in fuming particles of emotional shit through my life.
There’s this one. I’ve written of her before. I’ve written of her because I’m fixated, frankly. So repugnant and vile do I find her that I can’t loosen my intellectual fascination with this mound of human fleshy sewage.
And since I’m pathologically obsessive about such matters, I thought of her the other day and something occurred to me. She is John Candy. She is the archetypal John Candy character, writ real in this life of mine. She torments me with her Candyish enigma. Slothful, sloppy, slobbering, carnal, vacuous. My god, all of it.
Why must I torment myself with such noxious detritus in this life of mine? I am attracted to the darkness, its embrace, nix, strangulation, of my soul and being, but I avoid the light, the wonder, the magnificence of that which is fortuitous. Instead, I fixate on the John Candy in my life.
As I was walking, I thought of words, phrased pairings best describing this John Candy archetype which the chick reminds me so much of, which this chick fascinates me with through her venal seepage into my daily existence.
In fact, I found an email I sent myself on the day I thought of the John Candy analogy. The email contained a couple of descriptive phrases that came into my head as I walked along the sidewalk. I don’t have a smart phone or any other portable electronic contraption which weakly takes the place of a mind for most people nowadays, so I held on to the phrases in my leaky memory until I could write them out on the computer.
I found that email earlier.
And what I thought of the John Candy archetype, and by extension, this repulsive slab of insignificant flesh that clouds my view:
Perplexingly Jovial ©
Obliviously Imbecilic ©
There. That, them. That’s her.
That’s why I hang on to this fixation and will not attempt to diffuse or extract. It’s why I relish moments contending with such human garbage.
It’s the catharsis. I’m addicted.