Well, it’s probably that time of the year again – The Old Cottonians’ Ball where people brag about ‘cherished lifelong friendships,’ while whistling drunkenly to the old anthem we sang in school under the spiteful Sun. You’ll find every ‘somebody’ bragging about his job in Michigan or was it Thailand? You’ll find the same old cliques and clichés, the same old petty bullying and the same old lack of maturity. Yes, you’ll find people wearing designer suits, but a miasma of malodorous, pernicious malice rises from them. You’ll find the same old gossiping like old hags gathered around a Thanksgiving table, the same old boisterous boasting about some trite materialistic gain or a pretty new girlfriend or wife.
I stopped getting invitations for these events a while ago because they consider me an underachieving, under par pariah. A thirty-something unwashed, cocaine snorting fool. But I’d rather be a knowledgeable ‘fool’ than an ignorant overachiever. I’d rather lie in the lowest deck of Society’s cruise ship wearing the rags of ostracism and mental illness because being there – in that puke-ridden dark place – brings a depth to character that no amount of ostentatious picture clicking can provide. People on the upper deck reek of superficiality and artificiality while they sip their expensive scotch. Imagine getting degrees in engineering from prestigious schools abroad and still cloaking yourself with a benighted arrogance only because you’ve never known suffering. There’s something so obnoxious and suffocating about such a man. His achievements and his planes and his cars make him, and that’s the only standard he uses to existentially rate himself. You drive a Rolls Royce, but your emotionally stunted, avaricious psychical age is repugnant, my friend. And the woman who ‘falls for you’ has you trapped in the perfect wealth is directionally proportional to good sex façade of a relationship.
“Oh, Nitin used to cry in school! What a sissy!” You bark when your girlfriend tells you I’m cute, and that’s as deep as you can get. You aren’t even aware of your insecurities, and so, I’ve realized it’s pointless hating you. It’s better to pity you or even mourn for you in sackcloth and ashes and pray for your dear soul to reveal itself to you. “Oh, Nitin Lalit is a loser. He fell into drugs and alcoholism. His grades fell, and he’s jobless and worthless now,” says the schoolmate, while he’s smoking marijuana and drinking whiskey. And that’s as deep as he gets. His hypocrisy blinds him, or perhaps he justifies it by saying, “I’ve achieved this! He hasn’t! That’s the difference!” Oh, you pustule of a man. Are you going to be buried in the fancy car you bought for yourself? Quick to judge, but quicker to resort to the most peevish, childish defence mechanisms when judged.
Well, there you go. It’s that time of the year when I read Thomas Ligotti and Fitzgerald and herald pessimism, while you flaunt your repulsive, stigma-filled, classist, pseudo-elitist, hierarchical, ‘saccharine’ optimism that runs on the list of things you’ve done, singing, “On! straight on! On, Cottonians on!”
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2019)