Social networking websites are a terrible invention for people who cannot allow the scars of failed relationships or unrequited loves to heal smoothly, leaving a flawless emotional complexion. My emotional healing response is much like my physical response.
Whenever my body attempts to slowly add layers of scar tissue to the injured area, my fingers automatically scratch away at the crust until the original wound re-emerges, often with an angry red perimiter.
My emotional response is not to live my life in ignorance of the exploits and developments in the social lives of past loves or desires. NO, I must google, facebook, twitter or LastFM them. I must see the life that they have chosen to lead instead of the one that I had imagined and longed for. Perhaps I am looking for some kind of answer to what it is that I am lacking. As with physical scars, I derive an odd and disturbing pleasure from the pain and disfigurement. Facebooking that bartender at my favourite Irish pub, or the girl I stole a kiss from on a road trip to Melbourne is reminiscent of squeezing a pustular pimple on my forehead.
The infectious thoughts of regret will fill again tomorrow, requiring another online investigation into the many and varied ways in which THEY have moved on, or often how they have continued to live, in complete ignorance as to how I felt about them.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Wrestlemania 25
Last night I ordered Wrestlemania 25 on PPV. As I typed those words, intellectuals around the world let out grunts of indignation. Professional wrestling, I admit, is not a high brow form of entertainment. Under strenuous examination from disgusted friends, I find it difficult to justify my steadfast attachment to Vince McMahon and all he produces.
Perhaps it is nostalgia. Some of my fondest childhood memories involve a television, a VHS videotape and a red faced Hulk Hogan flexing his 21 inch pythons following a leg drop and 1-2-3 count.
Perhaps it is the simplicity of knowing who is good and who is evil. The crowd knows who to boo, and they do so on cue. Reality is rarely as black and white. And you know that it doesn't matter how beaten down the hero gets, they can overcome and snatch victory from the claws of defeat.
For some psychological or behavioural reason, I am attached to entertainment involving grown men and women in tights, badly imitating physical violence. My philosophy and standard justification for my fandom is as follows; not everything in life need be examined and analysed, especially when it evokes inexplicable joy. Let it remain inexplicable. And most important of all, don't try to demean the joy of others just because you don't understand it!
By the way- Undertaker vs HBK was a battle for the ages!
Perhaps it is nostalgia. Some of my fondest childhood memories involve a television, a VHS videotape and a red faced Hulk Hogan flexing his 21 inch pythons following a leg drop and 1-2-3 count.
Perhaps it is the simplicity of knowing who is good and who is evil. The crowd knows who to boo, and they do so on cue. Reality is rarely as black and white. And you know that it doesn't matter how beaten down the hero gets, they can overcome and snatch victory from the claws of defeat.
For some psychological or behavioural reason, I am attached to entertainment involving grown men and women in tights, badly imitating physical violence. My philosophy and standard justification for my fandom is as follows; not everything in life need be examined and analysed, especially when it evokes inexplicable joy. Let it remain inexplicable. And most important of all, don't try to demean the joy of others just because you don't understand it!
By the way- Undertaker vs HBK was a battle for the ages!
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