Arte Mechante is a satirical character— for the last eight years he has been attempting to get into STU’s journalism program, but now feels he is above all that and began his own advice column.
The school year is almost over. You made it. You’re proud. Happy, even. Despite hardship and strife, despite almost collapsing in a heap as you got up every morning, you made it. Don’t let your sour demeanour soil that fact. You made it, slugger.
You did it because you had hope. Just out of reach of your sweaty fingertips was a light from the door ahead: Hope. Hope for future beyond the resounding silence of nights alone. Hope that your life would soon begin. Hope that you would finally have the energy to make yourself look like something other than soggy human garbage.
Is that what you hoped for? Doesn’t matter, you survived because of that “hope.” And you fucked up, champ.
What have you been hoping for? Nothing will ever really get better, and it’s 100 per cent your fault. Allow me to explain those numbers for you art majors: it’s all your fault.
As a child, you unintentionally hurt other children. It felt bad, but have you ever admitted that it also felt good? How many people did you hurt in this nubile year alone? I’ll pause while you attempt to count above three. The person you’ve hurt the most is yourself. Tell Arte, how was your “cheat food”? How was your cigarette? How was that night spent watching Disney movies in an attempt to recapture the joy of not loathing yourself?
We all love our opiates, so we’ve legalized the den. To admit fault causes pain. Growth requires—big surprise—pain. But you’ve swallowed your soma and gave yourself a gold star that says, “You Deserved It!”
You put “hope” on an endless Youtube loop and lived laissez-faire in your bomb shelter, waiting for the danger to pass. Those “life-affirming” articles about how to be a 20-something only affirm that you choose to swaddle yourself in blankets of non-thought.
Sweet little idiot, you’re lucky you’re pretty.
Your “hope” seems to be that the world will be better when it is irradiated and everyone is gone. What, do you think it’ll be better without humanity perpetually puking all over good ‘ol Gaia and nibbling off parts of her teat? What bleak thoughts you have.
What you’re hoping for is that the universe will ignore you long enough to last a few new seasons of HBO. It is a fantasy you’ve concocted to make your complacency look like hardship. We all love HBO, but all you have left to eat in that shelter is canned beef. The store is just down the road. I know it’s raining. I know you look ugly when you’re wet, we all look ugly when we’re wet, and we all have to decide to go to the store.
If you leave the shelter, ditch your opiates and legitimately try, you don’t need to “hope” that life will get better, it simply will.
