Charles Manson is getting married and I’m still single and this is irritating. So here is a picture with a few of the reasons why I am better suited to marriage than Charles Manson.
I am far from perfect. I’m flawed. I’m kind of romantically stunted. I’m messy. I don’t really care for wearing makeup (why do people care so much about their eyelashes and eyelids??? They’re just dust covers for your eyeballs), and fashion, while I get it in theory, is one thing I’m never going to put effort into. I’m maybe overly fond of candy. I can be insensitive, though I try hard not to be. There are many people who are better than me, both in looks, and in talent. But I am definitely better than Charles Manson.
Me > Charles Manson
Other people > me > Charles Manson
Say if we’re all cakes. The first one is an other people cake. The second one is a me cake. The third is a Charles Manson cake.
What if we’re all flowers? The first one is an other person flower. The second is a me flower. Not as romantic as a rose, but still pretty good. The third is a Charles Manson flower. Yuck!
Look, I’m not saying I’m a saint. I’ve done some things I regret. But I have never murdered people or advocated murdering people, a fact in which I take great pride. I don’t have racist conspiracy theories. If I ever got a forehead tattoo, it would be a manifesto about how much I value other people and that I love them. I have a big forehead. It would fit.
Seriously, guys. This is preposterous! I have never even stabbed anyone! Zero people stabbed! Even if I stabbed two or three people, I’d still have a better track record than Charles Manson. I could even murder a handful of people, and I’d still be in better standing!
I just don’t understand. I can’t look into love the way that Neo looks into the Matrix and understand its mechanics. I can’t read love the way that I read books, or touch love the way I touch my keyboard when I type, creating it from bits and pieces, fragments of concepts and ideas. But I can say, truly, that I’m no longer in the mood for such malarkey. If Charles Manson can find love and I can’t, then love is more incomprehensible than I thought, and probably nonsense.