How to Deal With Life

A cynic's take on Optimism

Rule number one of dealing with Life:  Just play it vague like the beauty of a dying aria, and cold like the martinis that will one day drown me.  And that’s the only rule that I play by.  It’s hard to play by more rules when you’ve actually seen a dying aria, and the amount of martinis you drink actually makes you think that you will drown in them one day.  It may be a dismal view, but when a person’s seen so much corruption conquering ‘good’ men, you tend to take a dismal view on the world.  And I’m not going to apologize for that viewpoint.  If the only way that’s going to get me somewhere in Life is by lording myself over lesser people, so be it.

Because if Life’s a cruel mistress, there are no words to describe ‘Sister’ Death.  I picked up the Sister part from some damned naïve idealist, who believed that the world can get better.  He didn’t last long in the world, but I use that phrase to pay homage to all the idealists destroyed.  It’s my little way of paying respect, for they do deserve that, the idealists.  They’re so blind to the true nature of the world, it’s remarkable.  Do you know how that idealist died?  He died after being targeted by some thugs.  And it wasn’t as if he died during some grand crusade of justice, or goodness, or whatever you want to call it.  No, he died because he just happened to stumble upon the wrong place and the wrong time.  I never found out more, for an extrapolation of the one rule is, don’t stick your damned nose into other people’s damned business, because that nose has a tendency to become detached from your face.

If you’re expecting that I went on some campaign of revenge, then think again.  After paying my last respects to him, I didn’t bother even sticking around for when they put his body in the ground.  I don’t want any body left over when I die.  Either burn me, or stick me in a hole in the ground.  Depends on how I die.  But what I don’t want are any of those sentimentalists running around, trying to mourn me.  Anyone who looks at a dead person through coloured lenses is just wrong and short sighted.

And on the day of his death, instead of mourning, or any of the ‘expected’ things to do, I went out for some drinks and smokes.  I refused to finish that day without a martini in one hand, and a cigarette in the other, along with the mixed taste of both lingering in my mouth.  I didn’t mourn him.  Instead I got hammered, and probably decreased my life expectancy by several years.  There was a beautiful fight after I had been there a few hours.  I don’t remember if I had started it, but I was in the thick of it.  I think someone made a remark upon my gender, or their inability to tell what exactly my gender was, so in a sense, they deserved it.   Thank God there was no broken glasses, but definitely a bar stool was used.  I think I was using it, and then it got hijacked by a different person.  And I didn’t care that I was going to wake up with regret, for I truly was living with no regrets at that point.

I remember the next morning, though, with perfect memory.  That unique pain that only comes from someone punching you in the face.  The search for any cuts or scratches that might get infected.  The careful washing of my clothes (clothes that I had put on to pay my last respects, so they were my good ones), and disdain that I allowed blood to get on my vest.  And after that, getting hammered all over again.   I unfortunately didn’t have any cigarettes left, but I did have enough money to go to a bar and order one, or maybe four dozen, martinis.  It was a different bar this time, for another extrapolation of the rule is never go to a bar the day after you get into a fight there, unless you aren’t anywhere near at fault.  In fact, it’s best to stay away for a while, if not forever.  However, that day, there were no fights.  There was nothing, except me and the martini I was drinking.

Afterwards, I didn’t do much ever.  Made a few acquaintances here and there, but never did anything that amounted to much.  I did see an aria die, though, which was interesting.  I didn’t really know her that well, but knew she was another idealist.  Believed that she could use her meager sum of money to help the poor and downtrodden.  She came down sick, though, and failed to see that dream.   But at the moment of her death, she was one of the most beautiful creatures I had ever seen.  Before then, she was just some woman, and after that point she was just a corpse.  But at that moment, when all the hopes she had for the future fled from her body, she was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen.

But that gets me to my main point.  ‘Sister’ Death is a cruel b***h.  She takes everyone away, but doesn’t take the damned Idealists away soon enough, and leaves the cynics around too long.  She should just take everyone young.  That’s why I thought that aria was beautiful; because I wanted to see the last strains of hope leave someone, and see it crushed, knowing that their idealism created the moment, and nothing else.  I wanted to see Sister Death take an Idealist, and know that she did right, for once.  And that is why I will be drowned by my martinis, for no other way is willing to take me.