I had trouble thinking of a subject for this because of my overwhelming ennui, so I finally decided to write about that. Opening the notepad on my PC was a monumental effort. Writing the first paragraph caused me to make a series of extreme Charlton Heston faces. After getting this far, I had to take a break and think of even more things to not care about just to unwind.
I’m not really against ennui. I just find being permanently afflicted by it to be an inconvenience in my everyday life. There are things that you just have to care about in order to get by, and I just don’t care about any of them.
I do worry a lot, but I don’t think that’s the same as caring. My house got hit by near hurricane-force winds last week–there are huge limbs hanging out of my trees, my six-foot wooden fence blew down, a long strip of aluminum siding peeled right off the house, and my old 40-foot-tall TV antenna with a floodlight on it fell over. I should be out there right now doing something about it, but I just don’t care. Although I worry about the consequences, my thoroughly-ingrained ennui prevents me from taking any kind of positive action whatsoever.
I think a have an avoidance complex or something, which is an active factor in this. I avoid dealing with things, hoping that somehow they’ll just go away. Sometimes they do, but usually they don’t. Usually, more bad things just come along and pile up on top of the other ones, giving me even more things to both worry about and not care about. So when the inner turmoil and the emotional numbness that I simultaneously feel collide with each other, I can barely move except to eat or watch TV.
Actually, I think I really do care about all that stuff, but I just can’t muster a normal reaction to it. It’s like being Jack Webb after a lobotomy. Imagine Jack Webb just sitting there with that “Joe Friday” face but not saying or doing anything. Then imagine some hairy, pot-smoking hippy in a paisley shirt, granny glasses, and purple bellbottoms telling Joe Friday that drugs are cool and that getting stoned and running over kids and old people in his hippy van is fun, and Joe Friday just looking at him like he was a vase with daffodils in it. That’s pretty much it right there.
I do care about Jack Webb, though. I love Jack Webb. I watch Jack Webb movies and “Dragnet” reruns all the time. Jack Webb is my hero. When I think about Jack Webb, my ennui slowly begins to evaporate like beads of sweat on Rosie O’Donnell’s ass. Whenever I’m faced with indecision, I think, “What would Jack Webb do?”
Unfortunately, this doesn’t help very often, because the decisions I have to make in my life are rarely the kind of decisions that a guy like Jack Webb would have to make. Like whether to blow my monthly entertainment budget on the “My Neighbor Totoro” DVD or the “Big, Bouncing Boobies” DVD. I’m sure Jack Webb probably saw plenty of big, bouncing boobies in real life. And he wouldn’t have watched “My Neighbor Totoro” if it came with a free fifth of Old Crow, a carton of smokes, and a blowjob. Come to think of it, “what would Jack Webb do?” doesn’t really help me at all in my everyday life. Why the hell am I talking about Jack Webb?