I don’t get it.
Spontaneity is elevated as some sort of rarefied human gift, and prize we should all wish to attain. People boast of being “spontaneous.” They lavish personal ads with that garbage and tout it as some great symbol of personal pride. “I’m spontaneous!” they yell for the world to hear.
I say, “BFD. Spontaneity is for idiots. You know what spontaneity is? It’s a measure of disorganization and unfocused lack of control. There is nothing good about doing something at the last minute.”
Spontaneity, praised as an auspicious personal trait, is utter hogwash.
Spontaneity, my ass. No one ever made a mark in the world without a daily plan, or more likely, even a weekly or monthly or yearly plan. Life is too broad and diffuse to be of use without a solid blueprint, or at least a rudimentary structure therein.
I’m a very buttoned-down person. My life is designed to the most minute tolerances and I leave little to impulse or chance. My life abides by rules, strategies, foresight; spontaneity is for fools who can’t admit they don’t have the brains to control, or at the very least, dictate, a minimal element of their existence.
It’s time we stopped sanctifying this awful “spontaneity” meme and recognize it for what it is: you’re a mess, as is everything you haphazardly fill your life with.