I often wonder if my posts are too controversial, confrontational and depressing. I mean, who writes about not showering and not brushing their teeth and posts it as a Facebook note? Who in their right mind writes about an addiction to masturbation, and practically glorifies frigging? Well, when have I ever been in the ‘right mind,’ and what the hell is that anyway? Zen? A state of mental ecstasy leading to moksha?
So, I was reading ‘Tuesdays with Morrie,’ and I was wondering if I should come up with a cheesy, nihilistic parody called, ‘Gloomy Wednesdays with Sorrie.’ In my version, Sorrie can’t wipe his arse because he doesn’t want to and hates connection, people and love. He’s a self-deprecating, alcoholic misanthrope. I visit his place every Wednesday only because his housekeeper makes a great Long Island Iced Tea. It’s so good that you don’t taste the liquor in it. It’s like drinking peach lemonade with the added benefits. It’s surprisingly strong too.
Sorrie is a hardcore nihilist who believes that purpose is fragile and that there is no absolute truth. He’s grown fat over years of eating pork chops and smelly, blue-veined sausages and farts boisterously. He watches sitcoms like Friends and Mom even though he doesn’t find them funny. He smokes fifty cigarettes a day and snorts coke when he gets the chance. He loves Irvine Welsh and cannot tolerate any other writer. Yes, not even you Bukowski. He burps loudly and digs for boogers and scratches his armpits. He has no family, except his housekeeper who supposedly takes care of him. She tries to get him to write the house in her name after he passes, but he still hasn’t budged. She keeps trying while he keeps farting.
Sorrie and I talk about a lot of things. To an outsider, it might seem like nonsense or inscrutable philosophy, but we don’t care. Our main argument revolves around why life is so shitty. We know that talking about it isn’t going to solve a thing, but we prattle on. We don’t laugh or cry. We keep talking in a monotone. We’re both losers who don’t have a chance of getting laid anytime soon. Sorrie is still a virgin by the way. He’s thinking of calling a hooker, but his fear of STDs won’t allow him to.
The other gloomy Wednesday, Sorrie said, “You know Nitin, I’ve finally embraced this great tragedy we call life.”
“How did you manage it? I still can’t come to terms with my pathetic life,” I replied.
“Well, life is the void between the two poles of non-existence: Before Birth and Death.”
“Where the hell did you get that?”
“Well, all my brooding has finally paid off. People talk about the journey or the afterlife or the next life. But I’ve realized that there is no journey, and we aren’t here to take anything with us, nor do we come from anything. We’re just here without love or solace. We’re just a mass of atoms man, and the universe will recycle us as it pleases after this. There is no consciousness; there is no self or ego; there is no soul. All there is is non-being while being if you get what I’m saying.”
“Thank goodness I never smoked crack growing up!”
“Listen to me, man. All these connections we make are just part of the collective non-being while being. In the end, we’re atoms, that’s all.
“People tell me to be grateful for love and kindness, but those things are just illusions that our minds construct. And our minds are phantasms themselves, created by synaptic flares. Tell me I’m right, Nitin. Tell me.”
“This stuff is too dense for me, but being your fan and pupil, I’ll mull over it,” I replied, and we sat in silence for the next hour. Sorrie’s farts were the only sounds heard.
Anyhow, I’ll end this by saying that life’s greatest lesson is that there is no lesson. Its deepest meaning is no meaning at all. Its greatest truth is no truth. Its most brilliant moment lacks brilliance. I could go on, but I have better things to do like taking a shit. So, the end.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2019)