Apathy.

ag·nos·ti·cism (www.dictionary.com)
1. The doctrine that certainty about first principles or absolute truth is unattainable and that only perceptual phenomena are objects of exact knowledge.
2. The belief that there can be no proof either that God exists or that God does not exist.

I think this is the theological buzz-word that would best describe my belief system at the moment (it’s subject to change on a whim).

I don’t know whether God exists or not.
But, most importantly, I don’t care. It really doesn’t affect me at all.

People have agonised for centuries over questions like, ‘How was the universe created?’ and ‘Why do we exist?’ and ‘What happens after we die?’
These questions are unanswerable, but the desire to get at least slightly closer to the truth can dominate a person’s whole existence. As for me, I just don’t give a fuck.

I just don’t see the point in devoting your entire life to matters which, by defintion, haven’t the faintest thing to do with your life at all.

I’m here, now, and I don’t know for how long. As far as I’m aware, no other-wordly force is affecting my life – only my own will. To not take advantage of the time I know I have by pursuing experience and other ’shallow,’ material things – substantial things, like knowledge, relationships with others, beauty – seems like a terrible waste.

I don’t want inner peace, to get in touch with my spirituality, to know God, to have the great mysteries of the universe revealed to me. I don’t want to feel like my life has a purpose, that somehow I’m raising the bar for human existence on some vague scale, to have that sense of fulfillment that everyone seems to strive for.

I just want to experience.

And if that means ending up dead in a flat by myself, having been decaying for three weeks with nobody even realising I’m missing, only eventually being found by my neighbours due to the smell, then fine.

Rebellious.

Yesterday I bought an eighth of cannabis.

It’s not a big deal round here, where almost every adolescent over the age of twelve has smoked a joint at least once, but I’ve never really did anything illegal before. I tried to lose my virginity before my sixteenth birthday just to say I had, but the guys I went out with then just weren’t interesting enough.

It’s not like I’m going to smoke it anyway – I’ve never so much as touched a cigarette to my lips. It’s for Luka. It’s his birthday tomorrow, and I’m not terribly creative with gifts.

I’ve been out with so many potheads that it’s easy for me to get good weed, if the need ever strikes me. It’s comforting to know that, should I ever decide to deviate from the straight and narrow, I won’t be prevented due to lack of resources. I’m sure my various ex-boyfriends and their contacts will aid me on my way to physical self-destruction, and possibly spiritual nirvana.

I’m not against smoking or drinking – I just… don’t do them. I used to be dead against smoking when I was younger, and I still support the smoking ban for public places as I don’t believe in taking someone else down with you. It’s just that now I accept that people have the right to do what they want with their lives and bodies. If smoking gives someone physical pleasure, and if they believe it’s worth the risks, then who am I to stop them? We’re all going to die anyway.

And I know the argument against this: If you’re willingly consigning yourself to an early grave, then you’re selfish for not considering the feelings of your loved ones, who obviously don’t want to lose you any sooner than they have to.

This argument applies to suicide too, I suppose. I’ve sat on the phone trying to convince people not to top themselves more times than any 13-to-16-year-old should have to, and so has every other teenager I know, since depression seems to affect every adolescent these days. And I just can’t be arsed anymore. I used to think it was awful – I’d talk to someone who was considering it and just cry and cry because I know how much I’d miss them. And I would miss someone close to me, were they to die. And it’s a selfish thing to do, to kill yourself, to hurt all your family and friends. But if the only reason I want someone I love alive is for my own comfort in having them there, I’m just as selfish for making them continue to live with pain and emotional burden unnecessarily. I’d still miss them, of course, and I’d wish I could have done something to help… but if there’s nothing anyone could have done, I’d have respected their wishes.

Hedonism, Aestheticism, Narcissism

Today I’ve been sitting in doing bugger all, except reading a beginner’s guide to aesthetics, which I know nothing about. Even now, after I’ve read half of it. It says something about my intelligence that I can’t even grasp a beginner’s guide to basic philosophy – I always finish these things with a sense of only having mentally scraped the surface of the content. Nonetheless, the bits that I do understand I find very interesting. Even if I could explain them, I wouldn’t do it here, as I’m trying to avoid becoming the pretentious fuckwit that I seemed destined to be. I want to have read these things motivated only by a thirst for knowledge – a desire which is fairly apathetic at the best of times, meaning I never actually get anything read – rather than the urge to immediately reiterate it to others with the hope of impressing them. Now that I’ve officially given in and become dead inside, and began to once again pursue the medicine career under social pressure, I need to study the subjects which interest me in my own time.

It seems that at this point in my life the schools of thought which are most relevant to me are hedonism, aestheticism and narcissism. It just seems like it’s the right time for me, in my adolescence, to say ‘fuck it’ to conventional principles of what is valuable in life and set off on a rampant pursuit of pleasure, paying no regard to my inevitable self-destruction.

That would be wonderful, I think, but it’s unrealistic. It’s too late. My habits and principles have already been formed – I am set in my ways. I am unrelentingly conscientious, driven by a unquenchable desire to ‘succeed‘ (which, I suppose, at this age is synonymous with good grades and sensible behaviour), probably derived from society’s expectations of any child who shows a hint of academic aptitude. As a result, I’ve been subject to it for most of my life. The thing is, I’m not intelligent. Well, no more or less intelligent than the next person. I recently took the UK Clinical Aptitude Test (UKCAT) which is now obligatory for all applicants to UK medical schools. It’s basically an IQ test, designed to make selection easier, since the course has so many more applicants than the universities are able to accommodate, all of whom are high-achievers, which makes it difficult to differentiate between them. 80% of people who apply in Scotland have 5A’s in their Highers in 5th year, which is one more than the required AAAAB, and the most that 5th years in public school are allowed to take. Hence, academic merit is not enough – according to undergraduate prospectuses, candidates must have ‘non-academic’ qualities (work experience, etc.), be 18 or over, and, now, presumably, have a fairly high score on this test. I took an extra subject last year, which means I have six A’s, which is my edge. Despite this, however, I scored fairly average (which is poorly, for me) on the UKCAT, which may be my downfall. I deliberately didn’t try out any practice cognitive ability questions apart from those provided by the official website in order to familiarise candidates with the layout of the exam, as it is, after all, an intelligence test, and according to the website no further preparation can be done, as their is no syllabus on which they can provide questions.

It’s bollocks, of course – they only want people to take the test equally unprepared so as to make selection easier. You can certainly find similar types of questions and tutor your brain into the optimum processes for answering them, but due to the combined factors of my laziness and desire to ruin every one’s expectations of myself, I did none of this. And I scored average. Which, I feel, accurately reflects my intellectual ability. I work hard, and I get good grades. You don’t NEED to be bright to pass highschool exams. It’s just a matter of memorising the syllabus, which takes effort, but not intelligence.

So, because when I was 8-years-old I was perhaps slightly more advanced intellectually then my peers, I set the standard for myself for the rest of my academic life, and am expected by society to live up to it, despite the fact that my peers have long since caught up with and, in many cases, surpassed me in intelligence. One of my pet hates is that when I get a lower mark than usual on a test, or someone in the class beats me, everyone acts so surprised. ‘I beat LAURA! Oh my God!!!’ or, ‘A B?! Laura got a B?!’ It annoys the shit out of me. I’m not competitive – I’m really not peeved if I get beaten by people in a subject. I don’t have a lot of self-confidence and normally I don’t expect to do as well as I do, my recent exam results being a good example. So yes, I’m glad that you got a better mark than me, I’m happy for you, but must you use me as a constant standard of intelligence? I’m here by my own choice, my own work, and I can just as easily not be here if I want to, if it weren’t for the constant fear of disappointing people and the urge to live up to their expectations. I should be able to do whatever the fuck I want.

So, really, the choice isn’t mine, and this returns me to my earlier point. I will always be the hard-working, ’successful,’ person. There’s no place in society for me if I discard all my money-making potential in favour of making the most of life. I’ll never have promiscuous sex or do recreational drugs, or develop an all-consuming substance addiction, because deep down, I’m the person everyone wants me to be. In all seriousness, I’ll probably end up in an unhappy marriage with children I don’t, and will never, want, and work over-time until said marriage breaks up, just like my Dad, and wake up one day when I’m 45 and realise I’ve missed out on everything in life, by which time it will be too late to change my priorities. Basically, I’ll become everything I don’t want to be.

In that respect, I think I’m like Lord Henry from Dorian Gray (speaking of aesthetics), who, throughout the entire novel spouts scandalous rhetoric about The New Hedonism, and criticises conventional morality, but never seems to express these principles in his own actions, or really do anything but attend dinner-parties. I am a hypocrite, the most hated type of person in society. But I like the hypocrite, because he is everyone, really. The reason people resent hypocrites so much is because when they look at them they see their personal qualities mirrored. As in the preface of the previously mentioned novel, a.k.a. the greatest book ever written in the history of the universe (because it’s the only book I’m able to understand); “The 19th century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in the glass.”

Karma.

Well, my gentleman friend and I are no longer seeing each other. After I got back from my holiday I found I wasn’t so keen on him, and literally stopped texting and calling. So, of course, all communication completely broke down, being so he never made much effort to text or call in the first place.

It seems he discovered he wasn’t so keen on me either, as he told Esther when she offered to investigate for me. While I was away he, ‘got used to me not being there.’ And so a five-month relationship is broken down by a two-week absence.

I’m not offended, though, since while I was abroad I got pretty used to me not being there too. But he doesn’t know that.

Ka-ching.

I don’t feel guilty, though. I’m 16 and Charlie’s 47. I’m sorry, but my infidelity needs no other justification.

But I will provide some anyway. We were never that serious to begin with – he never expressed any deep or significant feeling for me, and I knew he had none. For the months before the Slovenia trip this used to upset me a little, since I was quite besotted, so I suppose when the temptation came and I realised how much I missed young arse, there wasn’t much reason for me to resist. I’m quite glad I did it now, in fact, because if I had come home to the same apathy as I did without having taken advantage of being abroad with Z, I’d have really regretted it.

In any case, I did end up falling quite hard for Z, more than he liked me (this seems to be a recurring theme). We agreed to continue or scandalous affair after we returned home (I was originally dead set on it just being a holiday thing, thinking Charlie was brilliant and not wanting to end with him), but about a week later he sent me a text (I know) saying he wanted to just be friends so he could pursue a long-standing unrequited love. Which is fair enough. He also instructed me to tell Luka that our liaison was strictly a holiday thing. Which is not far from the truth, I suppose, since it obviously didn’t progress very far.

Another text soon followed which I assume was supposed to go to Luka, who is close friends with the afore-mentioned love (otherwise known as Katie). It had an air of desperation and significant ass-kissing, and said something along the lines of him making a mistake on holiday with me, and his realisation of this being the reason for him ‘blowing me off.’

He did tell me in his SMS that we can still hang out. How magnanimous. We haven’t spoken since.

I’m not angry or anything – I just don’t want to talk to him, since I quite liked him and it’d just be inconvenient for me. He’s a bit of a wanker anyway, but achingly attractive. It’s a shame we couldn’t continue for longer. The pain I feel is purely due to the aesthetic waste. It’s like burning a masterpiece portrait, or something.

And I’m not sad about ending with Charlie, either. I was getting a little bored with him. My theory is that a relationship will only last so long as the intellectually superior of the pair (Charlie, in this case – I only find people romantically interesting if they’re more knowledgeable and/or intelligent than I am (that doesn’t narrow it down much), which makes a 47-year-old an ideal choice) still has some knowledge to impart to the less intelligent one. He was beginning to repeat himself. I’m sure with all he’s done and seen in his life he had so much more to tell, but it didn’t seem like I was going to get it out of him, and the fact that i didn’t care enough to try was a sure sign of the end. I just didn’t look up to him as much anymore. He seemed for more pretentious and trite than when we started – then, I was enthralled.

For example, the first time we met up after I got back we were in this Italian coffee shop, and he was wearing a pink t-shirt, and was flirting shamelessly with the waitress. I didn’t mind – I never do, when I’m with someone I genuinely like. I don’t get jealous. My reasoning is, so long as you like me enough to make me feel nice and secure and appreciated, I don’t care who else you like. I don’t feel threatened. Well, how much Charlie liked me was definitely questionable, but that’s not the point. I didn’t just not mind this time, though: I was thinking, ‘What are you doing? She is so out of your league. She’s GORGEOUS, and you’re just talking shite. Stop making an arse of yourself!’

Like I said, I can’t be with someone if I start to look down on them, whether I’m right to do so or not. He wore an even worse shirt on the night Esther investigated. When he came in to work, I just burst into hysterical laughter, and couldn’t stop. Twice. But when I told Est that I accidentally laughed at him, she thought I was perfectly justified.

Anyway, it was a nice experience while it lasted. I got what I initially wanted from the relationship – the novelty of being able to say, ‘I lost my virginity to a man older than my Dad.’ Which was the main factor that really persuaded me to go along with it in the first place.

EDIT (7/4/09): Reading back on this, I realise it smacks with my feelings of bitterness and rejection. I now look back on the whole Charlie thing as a positive experience – I enjoyed the conversation, and just generally having a romantic relationship with someone older and more wordly than myself. It’s something that, if I had do over, I wouldn’t do any differently.