I ask you

oh god

I enter the library to photocopy some articles for a professor and stop at this screaming image of a distressed man clutching at his head frantically as the headline urgently asks “How rational are passions?” I assume this question was supposed to be deep and critical and leading to some really “thoughtful” discussion on how passions are irrational and love is imaginary, making us feel bad to have a human experience. I had to throw my purse down and look around to see if anyone else was as exhausted by this as I am.

What fun would passions be if they were rational! How boring are they trying to condition us to be that we would sit nervously pulling our hair out considering if we might (god forbid) be a little irrational and passionate (gasp!). How boring and sad (not to mention stressful) must it be to work and labor over being a rational person. That’s what will really drive you insane like this poor son of a bitch who is suppose to be suffering the pains and arrows of irrationality. If he really was irrational he’d be out making love instead of suffering the uptight pains of “being” sane. I mean damn man! Who wants to be apart of higher-education insanity where you’ve picked apart and deconstructed the whole world that it’s now laying in pieces at your feet. Well done. You’ve become bigger and smarter then love itself that you now belong to the flatlands where all that deconstructed rubbish (all that insane irrational constructed created beautiful rubbish) is at your feet. All those pretty silly little creations we made together gone.

What’s laughable about this picture is that it almost made me feel guilty that I wasn’t in line. It wanted to keep me invested in it but I remembered how good it feels to be irrational…the irrational ones are having too much fun with their passions and desires. So Dude, lighten the fuck up. Same with the academic cultdom obsessed with dislocating their body from their mind, privileging isolationist tactics versus acknowledging bodily intelligence, making some bodies (that sweat and carry-on) as a marker to demarcate these from those that think and “function.” But the trick is that the sane have to remember how to be sane and thus stay invested in their supremacy from those other bodies that are gendered and marked and inscribed in difference. Which makes mine androgynous since I’m not fully either but I’d rather be irrational/crazy/silly any day.