The Most Elusive Answer is to the Question of . . .

. . . WHY?

Why is shit so complicated? Why does my Theology professor hate me? Why do bad things happen to good people? Why do I always end these fucking mindless "observations" with "Stay classy"? Why am I so freakin' constipated? Why am I awake at 2:23 in the morning talking about how constipated I am on the freakin' Internet?

Why is it that things can't go simply, and smoothly, like you intend them to from the start? Why is it that as soon as you feel like you may be able to be comfortable, something comes along and kicks you in the ass?

Is it because there's some slightly malevolent force out there in the universe that just about busts a nut at the thought of fucking up every life it can get its filthy claws into? I hope not, because that would fuckin' suck.

Is it because of karma? Hell no. Only Commies believe in that shit.

I'd LIKE to think it makes you a better person, or at least a more useful one. If everything you ever did went exactly as planned, you'd be such a herb it would be ridiculous. You'd be useless. The moment something went wrong - anything, something as simple as your shoelaces being suddenly untied - you'd go to pieces. What use is a person like that to anyone?

I think the best answer to the question of Why is "because." Which, of course, isn't an answer at all, but it is the single best way to respond.

Why? Because.

Because if shit weren't complicated, life wouldn't be exciting enough for me. Because my Theology professor probably thinks I'm dicking off in her class instead of paying attention (and she's partially right). Because life's not fair. Because it sounds good and I'm an idiot. Because I probably ate something I shouldn't have, and I've been under a lot of stress lately. Because I can't sleep and have nothing better to do (nothing that's relatively quiet, anyway, as my roommates are asleep).

Why? Because. Because that's just "how it is", and if you lay down and take it, congratulations, you're just like 99% of the human race. But if you stand up, grit your teeth, rear back and punch "how it is" right in the fucking mouth, regardless of how little damage it did, you did something. You did your best, which is more than anyone else is doing, and all that could be done.

I have no fucking idea where any of that came from. I'll probably look back on this in fifteen years and laugh and say some trite and corny adult line about teenaged angst (hopefully I'll know what "angst" means by then, or else I'll feel damn foolish talking about it).

Fuck. And in case you're wondering, that's the thirty-sixth time I've said that nifty and versatile little four-letter word in this blog.

Oh yeah. And a welcome to Parvez (aka Pez), who admits to having read this heap of shit at least once. Poor guy.

Stay classy