This is Part II of my re-telling of Dostoevsky’s “Notes from Under Ground” (Click here for Part I). This is as far as I got; I may or may not get back to it one day. Enjoy.

-doug

Part II.
Now, kids, what I want to tell you, whether you’re listening or not, is why I couldn’t even be a bitch. Honestly, there were plenty of times I wished I could be a bitch. But the wish never came true. Really, kids, I now know that being connected—“plugged in” as we used to call it—is a disease, an honest-to-goodness, DSMV-worthy, give it a name and a pill-regiment disease. Ordinary human connections would be more than sufficient for ordinary human needs—hell, we could do well on even 1% of the amount of information coming at a modern person living in this apathetic 21st century, especially to one who lives in a wifi hot-city like Austin, the most halfheartedly connected and techolusting city in the Western World (sure, there more connected cities, but I don’t live in them…those poor s.o.b.s…). It would have been perfectly fine, for example, to have only the limited knowledge and connections that those exciting and lively “good guys” have. You probably think I’m writing this for attention or to make fun of these “good guys”, that I’m just clanging out, like that customer who clanged into his cell phone. But come on, kids, no one could possibly want to expose their darkside just for that dwindling 15 minutes of fame, could they?

Stupid question. Of course, everyone does it all the time; people love their darksides, and I probably love mine more than anyone. Whatever, it’s a moot point. Anyway, still, I stand by my notion that not only is being overly connected a disease, but so is being connected at all (technologically connected, of course… I’m not so grim as to advocate extreme isolationism and hermitage-founding!). It’s true. But whatever, moving on, back to the point. This is what I want to know: why was it that, at the very moment that I was becoming aware enough to “think globally and act locally” to “respect and value the differences” (as we, or they, used to say), that I gave up? That, in fact, I became even more wasteful and biased and… common? I was really awful. I mean, maybe I was no more awful than anyone else, but why was it always that I wanted to be most awful, do the most inappropriate thing, at exactly the moment when I knew I shouldn’t? The more aware I was on how to “act globally” and “respect the differences” the more awful and biased I became; the further I slipped into the despised sludge and the more I felt I really might belong down there. But it wasn’t just a coincidence or a moment of heightened clarity brought about by the juxtapositions of proper and desired actions; rather, it was like it was all coming along naturally… pre-determinedly. It was as if this were just me finally realizing who “me” really was; this was the real me. It wasn’t that my sickness (or depravity or general fuckedup-ed-ness) caused these dark thoughts, they were at the deepest levels of “me”; I had finally worn off the shiny skin veneer to see the truth beneath. Once I realized this, I stopped fighting it. I believed (or very nearly believed) that this was my most true self—this was living honestly. Oh but the horror (the horror!) before I came to that conclusion. It was awful! I thought that surely no one else was going through this, no one else suffering like me, alone like me. I was alone, but to keep from being utterly alone, to take solace in even the simple daily b.s. that people go through, I knew I had to hide it. My shameful awful secret. I even reached a point where I felt a kind of abnormal normalcy; a revolting pleasure in returning home at night to my little east side hovel, hyper-aware that I had once again committed some (or multiple) loathsome act(s) that I could never take back, acutely aware of the ramifications. I couldn’t take it back, I couldn’t apologize or volunteer enough to ever erase the scars I left behind me (even if they were “death of a thousand paper cuts”), and it ate at me, turned me against myself, tore me inside out, devoured every moment of me until at last the bitter bean was pressed into a rich shame and, at last!, actual satisfaction and pleasure. That’s right, actual happiness! Pride, even!

…Really. I’m telling the truth. I’m telling you this because I really want to know if other people do this, too, do others feel the wretched ecstasy as I do? Let me explain. The enjoyment was really just from the intense awareness of my own filth; from the feeling that I had finally gone completely over-the-top, that I had (in jock parlance) “hit the wall”; that I was absolutely wretched. But it could never change; you had no other choice—it’s just who *you* are. And even if you could change, would you really want to? And, supposing you actually did effect that change, what would that really mean, what would you change into? But back to the main point—this is all happening beyond your control; all happening according to some inherent natural pre-determined path brought about by your awareness and connectedness and the suffocation pressing down as a unique and unavoidable consequence of them. Therefore, not only can a person not change, but he (or she or shle) can’t do much of anything at all. Therefore, it also follows, as the logical outcome of this awareness and glut of information, that you have every right to be completely awful (as if this consolation really mattered anyway). But whatever… Ugh. I’ve been rambling. I still haven’t really explained anything, have I? How can I explain this… pleasure…? But explain it I will! I’ll sally on until it makes sense. That is, after all, why I’m typing these words now.

For example, I’m awfully proud of myself. I’m as mistrusting and sensitive as a rape-survivor (victim?); but, there have been times when, if someone would have decked me, I probably would have been grateful for it. For real. I would have gotten some weird kick out of it—the thrill of despair, naturally, but aren’t all the best thrills those that come from despair, especially when you’re incredibly conscious of the good chance it could go from bad to worse at any minute? And that’s just for getting punched. Imagine the sick-joy overload if I would have really gotten beaten up; getting my teeth kicked into the curb might have been orgasmic! Whatever. The point is, I’m always the first one people blame and I’m almost always completely innocent when they do—I’m only following my nature, after all. If anything, the only thing I’m guilty of is being smarter than most everyone else around me. (I know it’s not very humble of me, but I am generally smarter than most people around me. It can be embarrassing. But confrontation is even worse.) Finally, I’m blamed because if there really is any altruism left in me, it only would have highlighted the wretchedness and made me feel even more guilty because I know that altruism is completely useless. The altruism would do nothing for me anyway. I couldn’t forgive someone who punched me; he (she/shle) was just acting out off his (her/shler) nature anyway, same as me, and you can’t really “forgive” bad breeding; and even if you could forgive it, you still would have gotten hit, and it would have hurt all the same. Finally, even if I wanted to “fight back” or seek revenge, I couldn’t do it. I never *do* anything. Why not? Let’s start a new section for that one…

A while back, I decided to re-write Dostoevsky’s Notes from Underground. This is this first part. Enjoy, dear readers, enjoy.

-doug

Part I.
I am depressed. … You don’t know me. I am spiteful and alone. I think I have social anxiety disorder. Or maybe not. I don’t know. I’m not in therapy; I’ve never even been to an analyst, though I believe in modern medicine and think everyone could use a little counseling. I’m incredibly superstitious—enough to believe in psychopharmocology at least. (I shouldn’t be superstitious, I have a degree for chrissake, but still, I am.) No, kids, I don’t go to therapy because I don’t want to. You probably won’t understand. You don’t know me, and that’s okay. I can’t really say why I don’t want to go to therapy; the therapists (whom I’m not seeing, but spiting nonetheless) certainly don’t care. I know very well that I’m only hurting myself. Still, if I won’t seek counseling, it’s out of my lonely spitefulness. I’m depressed? Good! Let me wallow in my despair!

I’ve been like this for a while—fifteen years at least. I’m thirty now. I used to work in the service industry. But not now. I was a nasty StarBucks boy. I was haughty and mean and I liked it. After all, since I didn’t get tips, at least I had to get something out of it. (That was a dumb line, but I’ll leave it in. I wrote it thinking it would be fun and sardonic, but now, realizing that I only wanted to show off my jaded-coolness, I’ll deliberately not delete it.) When customers used to arrive at the front of the line and ask me what kind of bagels we had, I’d frown and snarl and feel such joy if I managed to make them feel small. It always worked. Mostly they were just bland student-types: naturally, since they were in a coffeeshop. But among the fops, there was a certain customer whom I really hated. He simply refused to be bothered, and he always clanged into his cellphone in a loathsome way. I argued with him about that cell phone for over a year. I won eventually; he stopped clanging. This was a while ago, though, back in my college days. But do you know, kids, why I was so spiteful? The whole thing, the worst part, was that I was shamefully aware every time, even the times when I was at my most horribly rude and condescending, that not only was I not spiteful, but I wasn’t really sad or lonely either, and that I was just spitting on frogs to no effect and making myself feel better by doing so. I was blue with contempt, but just flashy a shiny gadget at me or let me smoke a cigarette and I’d have calmed down. I would have been shyly overjoyed, though I’d probably have snarled out of embarrassment and then given myself an ulcer for the next month worrying about it. That’s just how I am.

I was lying just now when I said I was a nasty barista. I lied out of spite. I was just taking a jab at the customers, but I could never really become spiteful. I’ve always been hyper-aware of so many facets of me that are just the opposite. I could feel them gurgling within me, these contradictions. I knew they were bubbling deep down inside me my whole life, just waiting to bust out, but I kept them inside, yes I did, I kept them there on purpose. They picked at me, embarrassed me; they drove me to fits and—and finally I was sick of them, oh how I was sick! Perhaps, kids, it may seem to you that I’m confessing something, asking for forgiveness or absolution for something? That’s probably how it seems… But seriously, I don’t care…

Not only couldn’t I really be spiteful, I couldn’t be anything. Not nasty, not helpful, neither a great guy nor a bastard; neither a bitch nor a hero. Now I spend my days in my little room, needling myself with the pointless notion that intelligent people can never really be anything and that only idiots can become something. It’s true. The burden of intelligence in the 21st century can only be, must only be (because he’s painfully aware of much too much) a whitewash imitation of a person, a character without character; a “good guy”, a person you’d want to hang out with, is a fundamentally stupid being. That’s 30 years’ wisdom. I’m 30 now, and 30, after all, is an entire lifetime; it’s positively old age. It’s awful to live past 30. It’s showy, immature! Who really lives past 30? Honestly? Really? Who? You know who? Only idiots and jerks. I’ll tell them, I don’t mind. I’ll walk right up and tell it to their faces, all those respected geezers, all those silver-haired and well groomed foggies! I’ll tell them all! And I can say it, I have a right to say it, because I will live well past 90! Maybe even 100, or 150! … Whoa, I’m getting to excited…

By now, kids, you probably think I’m kidding—trying to make you laugh. You’re wrong. You don’t know me. I’m not the humorist I appear to be, or might seem to be; however, if you’re getting bored (and I know that you are), and if you want to know who I really am, then I’ll tell you: I’m someone with a degree who still works in a coffeeshop. I work so I can pay my bills and watch my cable TV (and that’s all); and last year, when grandma died and left me my monstrous inheritance, I walked out in the middle of my shift, and immediate bought my one room condo. I used to rent and now I own. It’s a run down, dirt-hole on the sketchy east side of town. I have a cleaning lady (an angry immigrant woman with an accent who’s spiteful out of stupidity). Everyone says that this area, my corner of town, is getting worse yet somehow even more expensive given my fixed and limited means. I know that; I know it far better than the 3rd wave white-flighters and hipster incomers. But I’ll stay right here; I will not leave the east side! I won’t leave here because… Fuck it. Who cares if I stay here or not?

So then, what can a good person talk about with any real joy?

Himself (or herself, or shlerself, or shimself or whatever).

So, let’s talk about me.