I could care less. I couldn’t care less. Either way, I don’t care.
I’ve a quick thought exercise for you. Yeah, I know. Reading and exercise in one post. I’m the worst. But whatever. It’ll only take a moment. Or maybe several. Not long, is the point.
Look over at the nearest piece of floor that you’re not standing on. Doesn’t matter if it’s inside, outside, at home, at work, at school. Any bit of unassuming floor will do. Now care about it.
Unless you’re a floorowner (def: one who owns floors). This is a ridiculous notion. Right?
I’ve chosen “floor” because it’s pretty much everywhere. Everywhere you look, there’s floor or ground. Even the sea has a floor. Or bed. Whatever. There’s no subtext about it being something you walk all over.
But “floor” could be any unremarkable object. My point is, you can’t just choose to care about something. Or someone.
I hate that saying “I don’t care about anything” seems so melodramatic. Ergh. So adolescent. Errrgh. So naive. Ergh. Grow up! In fact. It’s not even true. I do care about some things. But barely anything. And I don’t care about anyone apart from myself.
It seems like a trick. Caring about others. I’m somewhat convinced that no one really cares about anyone else. That they only pretend to for their own gain. Bastards. Perhaps without even realising it. That’s the only reason I act like I care about other people. For an easier life.
I want to care about others. I like other people. I don’t wish them harm. But I feel no pleasure when good things happen to them. No sadness when something bad happens to them. I say what’s expected of me. Perhaps even do something that’s expected of me too. The latter’s unlikely. But I’ve been known to on occasion.
Part of me wants to have a child to see if I’d care about it. That’s a pretty dangerous experiment to begin. There’s no guarantee I’d see it through. And, like, I’m certain I’d only treat it well to fool others into thinking I’m a decent person.
That’s why other people have kids, right? To trick others? Unbeknownst to themselves. It sure seems like it when I see pictures of people’s children on Facebook. “I have stopped this tiny person from dying for a number of years.” Now tell me it’s – and by association, me – beautiful.
I felt distraught after my most recent breakup. But as the days passed and I started to pull myself together again. Yes, even the flabby bits. I realised that I didn’t feel bad that I’d hurt someone else. I felt bad that there wasn’t someone there to worship me. To tell me I’m brilliant or whatever. Not literally worship. But in my mind that’s what significant others are for. To help me trick myself into believing that I might be worth a damn. Or just generally tell me I’m wonderful.
Sometimes I spend a few days with my Grandmother. I help her out with jobs she needs doing. She pays me. I wouldn’t do it if she didn’t. But that’s not the point. She, as grandmothers often are, is pretty old. Her hands are gnarled and stiff. She can still walk. But she’s slow, wobbly and gets out of breath. She has to go upstairs on all fours. I don’t feel bad for her. I think about how I’ll be like that one day. Poor me.
I swear I’m a narcissist with low self esteem.