April 3, 2006:
My colleague believes that I don't take adulthood seriously enough. So I've decided not to play with him anymore.
Beyond the joke there's a genuine issue, although not the one he believes. These people are dour. They've internalized a joyless ethic, holier-than-thou, in which every action must be scrutinized for signs of lack. Or something. So that every comma has to be struggled over. Not among each other! But with oneself. As if Someone were watching.
No fucking wonder they can't get anything done. They're crippled by seriousness.
The great revolutionaries were joyful. They found vitality in the fact of struggle. They turned their work into play, eroticized it, made it fun, made it happy.
Which came first? Defeat, or joylessness?