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Like Babies with Tay-Sachs Disease, Dreams are Born to Die
Dreams: Worthless. Stupid. Like babies with Tay-Sach’s disease, dreams are born to wither and die a slow, agonizing death.
Whether they’re the kind one experiences during the REM stage of sleep or the idealistic ambitions quixotic shitheads envision themselves fulfilling one day, all dreams are equally dumb.
Oooh, look at me. I’m going to go back to school and become a lawyer. Right. And I’m going to meet a giant talking nectarine at the grocery store that I take home, rape and eat at the same time while its screams for help are ignored by all on account that he’s just fruit.
Please.
Similar to a congenital disorder that turns something beautiful conceived by love into an atrophied, crippled vegetable doomed to perish from systemic organ failure as its brain calcifies before your very horrified eyes, dreams are the insidious manifestation of a universal genetic curse imparted by a cruel, malevolent god.
Just ask any child what he or she wants to be when they grow up, and they’ll invariably blurt out a most unlikely vocation or something that doesn’t even exist, like fireman or fairy princess, instead of a job that’s within the realm of reason, like low budget porn star or cannon fodder.
And try as they might (though most never learn to know any better), the average person is completely incapable of keeping their unattainable fantasies to themselves, eliciting the inevitable fate of having the corpses of their aborted dreams buried by heaping mounds of shame when someone they opened their big yap to five years ago walks into the Tasty Freeze they’re currently making just above minimum wage working the register at and asks them about the screenwriting career they’d always been carrying on about – to which that person might lie and say something like, “Not too bad, I just finished one that’s getting some good buzz” – while the other guy, totally aware of how full of crap he is, will be all to himself, “What a dork. Wait until I tell everyone he used to be friends with what a huge loser this asshead is.”
Yet the cycle keeps perpetuating itself, with generation after generation of naïve children being passed seamlessly from the mittened paws of Mickey Mouse to the nefarious tutelage of the likes of Steve Pavlina as they grow into ignorant adults, all the while dreaming, dreaming, dreaming until they’re snatched up by the cold, steely grip of death. Pathetic.
And don’t get me started on hope. Christ. Fuck that shit.