Why Self-Loathing Is Better Than Self-Pity - Just A Thought #36 HD

I Was Thinking, Woe is me! Or some other pained huffing, perhaps of a symptom or ailment, perhaps with the word muh before it, has slid from the oh-so-misunderstood and overlooked lips of many couched and seated. Do you think to yourself about how difficult and, not to put too finer point on, shit your life is? Do you wish that you were taller, richer, or dead? Do you wallow in the horror, the horror of it all, but in a much more floppy-haired sort of way than Marlon Brando? Then you might be suffering from the worst sort of angsty bullshit! More angsty and bullshitty than any of the other emotional problems somewhat clever and unfilled people suffer from – including despair, hangover, and jazz. That’s right, you might be suffering from self-pity. My life! Don’t even start me on it right now! My life! Not to suggest that people with shit lives should deny their situations, or to condemn people who reflect or feel sad about their time in Bush era gulags… because self-pity isn’t the same as self-reflection, or as feeling sad. Self-pity is feeling sorry for yourself – it is, essentially, and hopefully conjuring up the image of a hippo having wonderful time, an activity of wallowing. And there are times when you can legitimately feel it – can I give you a ride to the local rape crisis centre? Ok so again tissue dispensers, there’s nothing wrong with feeling sorry for yourself when something bad happens, but it’s perhaps not as helpful when you’re feeling bad for, well, I don’t know, how fucked up your life is when you’re in a fair amount of control of it and compared to the rest of the none Bilderburg families it isn’t that bad. I mean fine, pity yourself; we are, dear listener, all doomed to dust, fated to be forgotten nothing in the cosmic wind, but two critical words defining self-pity are ‘excessive’ and ‘attention-seeking’. I think that’s actually three words and a hyphen Steve. Eat steel bitch! And my name’s not Steve. Despite all that about self-pity, I sometimes get the smallest inkling self-loathing might be held in less esteem, somewhere between the same sort of esteem held by a fixer for The Harvey Weinstein School of Massage and a Realtor who believes anything legal is moral. Did I mention that I equate estate agents with spider crabs? It might well be in their nature to be so unappealing, it might not be their fault, but I’d still give one both barrels and cook its guts up for breakfast. Gazump me and die! What was I saying? Self-loathing is not something held high by society. Do you hate yourself? Well that’s dysfunctional! Are you annoyed with yourself all the time, do you hold yourself to impossibly standards? How very queer! But if you want to make all that not your fault, go right-a-fucking-head. Well nine of my ten top in-real-life snot stains are people who could have done with a bit more self-loathing, and honestly I don’t think people should particularly like themselves. I mean sure, don’t hate yourself, but you