I did misinterpret your post, but maybe it lent itself to misinterpretation.

I admire you for doing exactly what you want to do. I have no doubt that you are entirely sincere in what you do. The best thing a human could do on this planet is exactly what they want, but never take any moral ground for it, and know EXACTLY what they are doing and how ridiculous it probably is, no matter how much happiness it garners them.

But, as far as this tiny universe of blog posting, your response is much more forgiving than the original post. You narrow down the scope of who should be trampled as stepping stones for us “producers” (I know you were being hyperbolic, but still) and you narrow it down to a very hatable bunch: lazy assholes in your area code, and leeches from your past. It’s almost as if your talking about a single person you know at this point. Some guy named Hank, who sleeps in and gets drunk and lives in his mom’s house at 25.

It’s all of the sudden become a very safe point to make. Your qualifications for passion and thus worthiness have become all-inclusive. Why do you all of the sudden give the bag boy the benefit of the doubt, whom you don’t even know, yet not bed-headed kids who seem static to you? Because you have faith in other people, and you don’t judge them because of their place in life? I find that hard to believe when you’ve torn a stranger apart because they’ve popped their pimples. Yes, the bag boy is probably writing the great american novel at home on brown paper grocery bags he stole from work. Is that what you really think? Give me a break: go with your instincts and brush him off.

You’re assuming you know what peoples’ bests are, and that you recognize potential wasted. You won’t impose your own goals on anyone else, but you’re still preoccupied with agreed-upon goals (even presently fulfilled, like your own happiness) and most importantly, shallow indicators of not reaching them (sleeping in late, getting drunk, leaning against walls). I know these examples of yours are tongue-in-cheek, but there are things worthwhile besides imposing your will on the world, besides ambition and productivity, an on-going career, skin care, or even happiness. Or anything that you would call “doing something.”

Getting caught in the paradigm of unrelenting ambition and youthfulness is what leads to the dreaded “middle-agedom” you referred to. Time passes unforgivingly in a bubble like that. Wallowing in the world of bloggers, stylists, promoters, marketing people, and advertisers, all on the absolute top tier of grotesque consumption, and bullshitting it into each others mouths and calling it production. These are the to-do lists that bottom out at middle age.

You would probably walk past your favorite writer on the street and not recognize him, because you would ignore the drunk walking past you at ten in the morning, and stare at the ground to avoid getting too much detail seeped into your memory of his pockmarks. That would gross you out. The conceit of your entire living is that your life matches your art exactly; you live up to what you say! Of course. You fuck in the back of SUV’s and return things to Ikea and you write about it. It’s really not that hard. Those who insist that artists must live their lives exactly like the value of their art, are the most adolescent, banal assholes on earth. They cannot fathom the degenerate who writes beautiful novels. Yet, you regurgitate. There’s nothing extra, no magic. It’s sickening that you even call it “work”. But, that’s what people like about you. All of the “I love you Alexi, such an inspiration!” comments come from people who need validation for their own vapid lifestyle.

You call people lazy, drunks, idiots, un-ambitious, but you don’t understand that people’s creations can actually transcend their daily lifestyle, and that there are people who could give a shit about their body or their apartment or their family, people with polio and a heroin addiction, who will be remembered in the future for three times your lifetime. And don’t give me this shit about appreciating passion of all kinds, because when it’s throwing up on your doorstep, you’re calling the police. You’ve incriminated yourself with your own blog; you’re documented, self-professed shallowness taints your newfound sense of being Mother Teresa with the lower class. You want everyone do do the most with what they have, yet there still remian those pesky terds who can’t afford the hair and body products that you use, and then at least have a credible reason for being degraded; being ugly! The best types of passion are those you, Alexi, cannot recognize in any form. It’s almost a qualifitcation for good art.

I know people will say, “don’t attack her on her own blog!” But that’s the medium you’ve chosen. A medium of constant reinforcement for vanilla pudding ideas, but also dissestion. You responded thoughtfully to my ridiculous post, and I’ve responded to your ridiculous post. All I really suggest is that you realize that what you do, what you write, and the miniscule world you dwell in, is ridiculous. You may take offense to that, but don’t. Because there’s nothing wrong with that, and it’s a step of maturity. It’s absurd to have the audacity to assume who are the winners and losers. Do what you want with your life, but know that you came from two parents fucking in a pile of sweat, and that the entire world would laugh at you if you told them your problems and concerns and half-experienced beliefs, and carry on in the face of that, but don’t forget that.

And I use the word Hitler very liberally anyways. If my cat shredded my last role of toilet paper, I’d call her Hitler for the rest of her life.

Maybe after this, you’ll narrow down your opinions a little more to just include hating serial killers. Everyone would agree with that quite fine.