In reality, of course, I’m nothing more than mediocre. To be exceptional, my only options are exceptional depravity or destruction, and that’s as lame and gay a prospect in actions as it sounds to write.
Virginia Tech’s Cho was a terrible writer, from what little I read of him. He’s famous now, and more people have read what he wrote than otherwise would have (and even now, should have), but killing 30 people didn’t make him a better writer. Or his existence anymore worthwhile.
In effect, Seung-Hui Cho was a forgettable person who accomplished nothing in life but getting himself remembered. Hitler may have been a so-so painter, but he was genuinely gifted as a speaker and mover of people. He used his talent poorly (broken link), but he had talent. At nothing am I so talented as Hitler was at speaking to people. I don’t think I could kill more than a few dozen Jews, really.
I haven’t slept well in three days. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I’m not saying it well, in any case, of that I’m sure.
I can never be Shakespeare, Orwell, or even Christopher Paolini. Which is depressing. God is it depressing.
I could be Albert Fish, but I don’t particularly want to shove nails into my ballsack.
Maybe the point, then, isn’t to be exceptional to the world, but to find someone you’re exceptional to, have children, and give them a joyful, if not always happy life. Bourgeois, perhaps, but we all think we’re middle class already.
Damn it. The backs of my eyeballs hurt. I need to go sleep or do some coke or give myself an enema with a gay man’s dick or something.