Thought Catalog Douche of the Week
This is a new weekly(ish) segment called “Thought Catalog Douche of the Week.” The first Thought Catalog article I deconstructed I assumed to be an aberration. Apparently though that site has publishing standards almost as low as ours. Don’t get me wrong, I still enjoy Thought Catalog. There are some really wonderful articles on that site. Like this one for example. Well done m’am. But the deeper I dig into that blog the more I find some truly awful, eye roll inducing world views from people who seem convinced that wearing skinny jeans and smoking cigarettes make them the bearers of culture’s bright light.
We were talking about relationships in my living room, over Aperol drinks with ice cubes and cigarettes off the fire escape.
It’s good that she established she was a hipster so quickly, lest someone take a single subsequent sentence seriously. Also, are you in your living room or on the fire escape? Or is your living room on the fire escape? If you tell me that the latest hipster trend is to live on fire escapes I will 100% believe you.
The ethereal echo of something lo-fi and chillwave set the mood. The heat lifted its oppressive finger, ever so slightly, in the early evening glow.
The mood, in case you’re wondering, is “mellow douche.”
“If only we could be boring,” she said, wistfully, smiling in between sips.
I’m not really sure what exactly I’m trying to get across with this clip. Reading this sentence was literally as horrific as watching someone get run over by an industrial mower, pretty sure while reading it I made the same face as Marky Mark. But that statement also made me wish for the sweet release of being run over by an industrial mower. So, I don’t know, you decide.
If only. If only we weren’t pulled by an unquenchable hunger to make big things happen, to make music and images and moves, to shout in some way that people really hear, that echoes.
‘Tis a noble cause indeed, to be an artist. To make big things happen. Woe to you boring architect who builds a bridge, and dull engineer repairing a levy to keep a town from flooding, you as well dreary lawyer attempting to defend an innocent man. While you putter through life’s trifling the artist stands above it all, creating!
For while your memory and work will fade quickly, the world will never forget that blotchy, amorphous red, pink, and black painting hanging in the corner of an obscure art gallery called simply “Aborted Christ Fetus.” Can your Midwestern corn-brains handle some in-your-face, welcome-to-reality shit like that?
If only we didn’t build this micro-world full of the same crazy, glittering people that we’ll never, ever be able to let go.
I assume this is fancy talk for: “If only our heads weren’t eight feet up our asses.”
What if you – beautiful, wonderful, talented and so full of light – were more boring? What if we were all more boring? Would it be better?
I have no idea, considering you don’t even define what being boring entails. But this article can’t get much worse, that’s for sure. I have no idea if I’m boring or not. I don’t really think about it. I feel like if I did sit around and wonder what it would be like if I were boring, I’d probably be a pretty fucking boring person. Instead I just wonder whether or not chupacabras like sweets. Not sure if that makes me boring, it might make me retarded though.
It might be easier, as I imagine life is for people who live boring.
Yes, owning their boring homes with their boring mortgages, and the boring chore of raising a family. Life, I imagine, is a lot easier for that boring police officer patrolling East St. Louis. Can you imagine if he had to paint? Or lay a couple beats on top of each other and email the MP3 to a club owner? Thank God all he has to do is investigate burned and dismembered bodies. Talk about a snoozefest.
I respect it:
Well not really, but okay…
I’m just beginning to understand how hard everything will always be because I choose to live only in extremes,
Extremes? You’re living an extremely lame existence, if that’s what you meant.
at a breakneck pace,
drinking and smoking cigarettes on your fire escape…
in a golden house full of only beautiful people.
AHHHH!!!! Where’d the computer monitor go!!! I just rolled my eyes so hard they ended up in the back of my head!
We never want to slow down.
You sit around and talk about how other people are boring. You hang out in your apartment, or in a studio, or on your fucking fire escape for all I know making music and visual art. Your life sounds nothing but slow.
Maybe it is just because we’re young and don’t have reason to yet. Do boring people think about how fast they are living?
No, because time flies when you actually have shit to do.
Do they quiet that inner clamor with the rituals of a tempered life, built around bland tasting elements like cable television, freeway traffic, and local news?
You don’t watch the news, but I bet you sure love giving your opinion about it.
I’m not trying to be mean.
My parents would say: “You are so judgmental,” like they do whenever I talk about Midwestern life or normal people or the suburbs.
I’ve never been to New York, but I swear to God if I the second I set foot there for the first time I don’t have a life altering, Mufasa in the clouds, epiphany I’m going to fucking lose it.
But I mean no harm. I just can’t see how one could be happy being boring, and my parents also always say, “We just want you to be happy.” If only it were that easy.
What the fuck is boring? What are you talking about!!! You have yet to even define it! So far all I can gather is that unless you make (what I assume to be) shitty art your life blows. At least here you accidentally admit that you have absolutely zero perspective on what you’re talking about.
What’s ironic is that you probably pride yourself on being an open minded person, but this has got to be one of the most close minded things I have ever read. Please save your pity for someone that gives a shit. Because trust me, we don’t.
Maybe I am speaking way too soon.
From what I’ve read so far, ever is too soon.
Maybe things will progress, evolve, untangle and unfurl in the next decade or so, and suddenly everyone I know will live in houses in Connecticut of Rhode Island. Maybe.
/Starts praying you become a grade school art teacher in Wisconsin
I just don’t foresee something so drastically separate from the life we are all trying so hard to build together out of these concrete streets, abandoned warehouse bricks, and the brilliant ideas that come of our long nights and conversations.
Considering that this article was conceived during one of your incomprehensibly douchey conversations I’d like to contest your assertion that any ideas you have during said “long nights and conversations” are brilliant. They sound awful.
There is something to those long, sweaty nights, whether we are moving our bodies against each other or eating through packs and packs of cigarettes,
Please smoke as much as possible.
letting our worries and reassurances slide out with the curls of smoke.
Wait, what? Your worries AND your reassurances slide out? Aren’t your reassurances what quell your anxiety? If you stopped being so reassured (see also: full of shit) wouldn’t you start to worry about something? So does this mean that you sit there neither anxious nor confident, but rather somewhere in the middle? Not really feeling anything? Like a…wait for it…boring person?
It takes a night, and a groggy morning to make our collective thoughts come together. Boring people go to bed hours before we do. They never quite see the morning light.
I don’t even know what to say to that. I’m just going to go out on another “The Happening” suicide as horrific as this person’s worldview.