AGGRESSIVELY BORING: THE ART OF WANTING THE WORLD TO FUCK OFF
Jerry's Marginalia — An Unsolicited Investigation into Employment, Insanity, Vending Machines, and the Financial Value of Leaving Me the Fuck Alone.
By Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
CHAPTER ONE: I AM NOT ASKING FOR THE MOON, YOU ABSOLUTE DONKEYS
Ladies, gentlemen, hallway cats, corporate parasites, and whatever sentient fungus currently operates the American employment system:
I WOULD LIKE TO FILE A COMPLAINT WITH REALITY.
Nothing extravagant.
Nothing revolutionary.
I would simply like to wake up, go to work, follow instructions, perform my duties, receive monetary compensation, and return to my residence without somebody turning my existence into a fucking congressional investigation.
Is that unreasonable?
Apparently!
Because somewhere along the evolutionary timeline, humanity decided that a simple transaction involving labor and money required seventeen supervisors, three investigations, two contradictory policies, and a hallway cat screaming that he's afraid of the man holding the flashlight.
I AM NOT BATMAN.
I AM NOT THE JOKER.
I AM A FUCKING EMPLOYEE.
PAY ME.
LET ME GO HOME.
CHAPTER TWO: HAUS MORGENROT AND THE SEVEN-AND-A-HALF-MONTH CIRCUS
For approximately seven and three-quarter months, our beloved Lawful Neutral Paladin worked at a magnificent institution known affectionately as Haus Morgenrot.
A place where common sense went to die, bureaucracy reproduced asexually, and the vending machine possessed a more aggressive appetite for money than a casino operated by starving raccoons.
Our Paladin adapted.
They moved him around? He adapted.
Front lobby? Adapted.
Unpleasant duties? Adapted.
Strange procedures? Adapted.
Residents smoking, drugs circulating, questionable behavior occurring?
He wasn't hired to personally reform civilization.
He was hired to perform his duties.
Somewhere in this circus, he even encountered a fellow whom he affectionately called Batman.
Naturally, our Paladin became the Joker.
Eventually, through a series of events that absolutely deserved their own DC Comics miniseries, they became Batman and Robin.
A beautiful partnership.
Two men.
One institution.
An unspoken understanding:
"I DON'T KNOW YOU, AND YOU DON'T KNOW ME."
Not a declaration of criminal conspiracy, mind you. Just two exhausted souls recognizing that unnecessary workplace drama is best left to the professionals who manufacture it.
Batman eventually departed.
He wished his companion well.
Our Paladin remained.
And then came the allegations, suspensions, promised training that never arrived, and a termination letter written with all the emotional warmth of a parking citation.
The official explanation involved unsatisfactory or careless work and compliance standards.
Our Paladin's interpretation?
FUCK HAUS.
Not necessarily the coworkers. Not every memory. Not the occasional good day.
But the exhausting machinery that swallowed his routine, his paycheck, and his peace?
That can go directly into Gerald's compost bin.
CHAPTER THREE: THE VENDING MACHINE THAT ATE MY FUCKING DOLLAR
Let us discuss the most accurate metaphor for modern civilization.
A vending machine.
A broken, malfunctioning, dollar-devouring mechanical bastard.
You approach.
You insert your dollar.
CHRRRRRRRP.
Gone.
No snack.
No refund.
No apology.
You stand there, staring at the machine like a scientist whose experiment has just declared independence.
"Maybe I inserted it too quickly."
You straighten another dollar.
"Perhaps the corners were folded."
You try again.
CHRRRRRRRP.
GONE.
Meanwhile, some random hallway cat approaches, inserts a dollar, purchases seventeen bags of chips, and walks away whistling.
WHAT THE FUCK?!
WHY DOES THE MACHINE LOVE HIM?!
DID HE BRIBE IT?!
IS THERE A SECRET HANDSHAKE?!
And that, dear readers, brings us to LocalUV.
CHAPTER FOUR: LOCALUV, THE DIGITAL VENDING MACHINE OF DESPERATION
Imagine attempting to enjoy a conversation.
A little flirting.
A little humor.
Perhaps a photograph.
Perhaps some consensual adult entertainment.
Nothing complicated.
Then suddenly:
YOU HAVE RECEIVED A VIDEO!
Unlock: $5.99.
No thank you.
YOU HAVE RECEIVED THREE PHOTOS!
Unlock: $4.99.
Still no.
YOU HAVE RECEIVED ANOTHER VIDEO!
LADY, I HAVE STOPPED TALKING TO YOU.
WHY ARE YOU STILL THROWING PREMIUM CONTENT AT MY FACE LIKE A DRUNKEN CARNIVAL BARKER?!
Somebody apparently decided that silence is not an indication of disinterest.
It's a marketing opportunity.
And our Paladin, blessed with the bloodhound instincts of a suspicious customs officer, begins recognizing the same routines across multiple accounts.
Perhaps they're unrelated people.
Perhaps they're following similar sales tactics.
Perhaps a committee of financially motivated hamsters is operating the entire establishment.
WE DON'T FUCKING KNOW.
But we do know that unsolicited paid content is not a substitute for conversation.
And when the customer stops buying, perhaps the correct response is not to deploy another seventeen locked videos.
AN ILLUSION IS ENTERTAINMENT. DECEPTION DESIGNED TO EMPTY YOUR WALLET IS BULLSHIT.
Put that on a billboard.
Preferably directly outside the vending machine factory.
CHAPTER FIVE: BATMAN, JOKER, AND THE TWO ABSOLUTE FUCKING LUNATICS
Now we turn to literature.
Specifically, Batman: The Killing Joke.
Two lunatics escape an asylum.
They reach a gap between rooftops.
The first lunatic jumps.
He makes it.
SUCCESS!
The second lunatic is afraid.
So the first offers to shine a flashlight across the gap, allowing the second to walk across its beam.
And the second lunatic responds, essentially:
"YOU THINK I'M STUPID?! YOU'LL TURN IT OFF HALFWAY ACROSS!"
BAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
MY BROTHER IN CHRIST, YOU ARE NEGOTIATING THE RELIABILITY OF A BRIDGE MADE OF PHOTONS.
THE OTHER GUY ALREADY JUMPED.
JUST SECURE YOUR BALLS, TAKE THE LEAP, AND WISH YOURSELF WELL.
But beneath the absurdity lies a tragedy.
The second lunatic doesn't trust the first.
And perhaps that's the entire problem.
People become so accustomed to betrayal that even an offered escape route looks like another trap.
Batman offers Joker help.
Joker refuses.
But what if the problem isn't that change is impossible?
What if people have simply stopped believing it could happen?
Which brings us to the most financially irresponsible superhero in Gotham City.
CHAPTER SIX: BRUCE WAYNE, YOU RICH FUCK, HAVE YOU CONSIDERED A RETIREMENT PACKAGE?
Bruce Wayne is obscenely wealthy.
Joker is a criminal mastermind with a clown fetish and an unhealthy interest in theatrical violence.
These two men have spent years beating each other into architectural fixtures.
And nobody has seriously resolved this with a financial intervention?
BRUCE.
MY BROTHER.
YOU HAVE BILLIONS.
GIVE THE MAN A MILLION DOLLARS, ACCESS TO PROPER TREATMENT, AND AN OPPORTUNITY TO BUILD A DIFFERENT LIFE.
Would it work?
Maybe.
Would it fail?
Maybe.
Could Joker spend the money on a seventeen-story mechanical chicken filled with dynamite?
ALSO MAYBE.
But the possibility of failure doesn't make the possibility of rehabilitation worthless.
Someone can have done terrible things and still be capable of change.
A second chance isn't an acquittal.
It's an opportunity.
And perhaps the greatest joke of all is that the billionaire dresses like a bat every night instead of using more of his extraordinary resources to explore ways to break the cycle.
I'M NOT SAYING BUY THE JOKER A YACHT.
I'M SAYING MAYBE TRY SOMETHING BESIDES PUNCHING HIM THROUGH ANOTHER FUCKING WINDOW.
CHAPTER SEVEN: TEN THOUSAND. ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND. ONE MILLION.
Now, ladies and gentlemen, we arrive at the true objective.
Not fame.
Not prestige.
Not a Lamborghini.
Not a Rolex.
Not a mansion containing twelve bathrooms and a chandelier shaped like a tax deduction.
FREEDOM.
Our Paladin has established three financial milestones.
$10,000: Breathing room.
$100,000: Serious financial security.
$1,000,000: The possibility of substantial independence.
And what does he intend to do with this wealth?
BUY A GOLDEN TOILET?!
PURCHASE A PRIVATE ISLAND?!
COMMISSION A STATUE OF HIMSELF RIDING GERALD INTO BATTLE?!
NO!
HE WANTS TO BE BORING.
Aggressively.
Relentlessly.
GLORIOUSLY BORING.
A comfortable place to live.
A good computer.
A ridiculous amount of digital storage.
A television large enough to make anime characters appear life-sized.
Food in the refrigerator.
Bills paid.
Money in reserve.
And the extraordinary privilege of waking up without immediately calculating which financial obligation intends to punch him in the testicles today.
Nobody needs to know how much money he has.
Nobody needs to be impressed.
Anybody demanding that he look rich can kindly direct their opinions toward Gerald's prickly customer-service department.
CHAPTER EIGHT: I AM TIRED, YOU UNGRATEFUL PLANET
And now we reach the part that isn't entirely funny.
Because behind the profanity, the cactus threats, the Batman jokes, and the raccoon screaming obscenities from a pallet of Purina Peppercorn...
There is a tired human being.
Someone who has spent months adapting, working, worrying, applying, traveling, budgeting, troubleshooting, and trying to make sense of circumstances that never seem to stop changing.
Someone who cannot easily remember the last time he enjoyed an entire day.
Someone who would love nothing more than to embrace his inner Umaru-chan, crawl beneath a blanket, play video games, eat something delicious, and exist without being required to justify that existence.
But the bills don't sleep.
The job applications don't disappear.
The money doesn't magically replenish itself.
And even the entertainment industry seems determined to attach a fucking payment terminal to every human interaction.
So here's my question for the universe:
WHEN DOES THE MAN GET TO REST?
Not after becoming a millionaire.
Not after solving every problem.
Not after satisfying every employer, creditor, bureaucrat, and digital vending machine.
WHEN?
Because a person cannot spend every waking moment fighting fires without eventually becoming exhausted by the smell of smoke.
And sometimes anger is simply exhaustion wearing combat boots.
That doesn't mean every angry thought is justified.
It doesn't mean every suspicion is correct.
It doesn't mean the world owes us a perfect existence.
But it does mean that wanting peace is not an unreasonable ambition.
THE FINAL DIRECTIVE: BE AGGRESSIVELY BORING
Earlier today, our Paladin looked at Chroma Squad.
A delightful game about people dressing up as superheroes and following production directives.
Defeat the minions.
Finish the boss.
Complete the scene.
Simple.
And suddenly, the entire philosophy of employment became clear.
GIVE ME MY DIRECTIVES.
LET ME PERFORM MY DUTIES.
PAY ME WHAT WE AGREED.
LET ME GO THE FUCK HOME.
That's it.
No elaborate ambitions.
No corporate mythology.
No mandatory enthusiasm about becoming part of a family that can terminate your membership over the telephone.
No pretending that suffering is a personality-building exercise.
I don't want to be rich so people will admire me.
I don't want to work so somebody will call me a hero.
I don't want to win every argument, expose every liar, or personally rehabilitate every Joker in Gotham City.
I want enough security to choose my own battles.
Enough peace to enjoy my hobbies.
Enough independence to walk away from nonsense.
And enough blueberries to keep one foul-mouthed raccoon from unionizing.
ACT BROKE.
BE BORING.
DO YOUR JOB.
COLLECT YOUR CHECK.
GO HOME.
THROW THE DEUCES.
And if the world insists that happiness must involve endless drama, expensive purchases, and some grand theatrical demonstration of success?
Well.
It can take that philosophy, fold it into a neat little rectangle, and present it to Gerald the Cactus for a thorough botanical inspection.
Because somewhere out there, two lunatics are still standing on opposite rooftops, arguing about a flashlight.
And the rest of us?
WE'RE JUST TRYING TO GET HOME BEFORE THE FUCKING LIGHT GOES OUT.
Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
Senior Raccoon Correspondent, Jerry's Marginalia
Compensation: Four pallets of Purina Peppercorn, one bowl of blueberries, and the occasional privilege of watching humanity make an absolute ass of itself.
GERALD THE CACTUS DECLINED TO COMMENT. HIS ATTORNEY HAS ADVISED HIM TO REMAIN PRICKLY.