There is a 90% chance I will leave [x]’s home and say to you: [x] seems like they’re really going through something. Should we say something to [y] about it? I feel like they don’t trust me enough to believe me.
Within that 90% chance, there is a subsequent 39% possibility you will say: that’s their fault; they abandoned the ideology of social realism; we cannot hold ourselves responsible for those who lack fidelity to the Party and who wish to abide by the bourgeois aesthetic principles of an absurdist formalism.
There is a 75% chance, if this turn in conversation occurs, that I will agree with you. I will keep secret, then, that I myself am an absurdist. This is because 80% of all art is a cry for help. The remaining 20% is a scoff at sympathy. For instance, I once saw two men link arms and become a wheel. It was a cartoon in an exhibit, and they were both vampires. I remember only their looks of cautious, blind optimism.
Their greatest hopes, then, were mixed with their most perverse worries: how to get from point [a] to point [b] while drinking as much blood as possible, maintaining at least 90% maximal proximity to carcinoma patients to receive what they called a “new leash on life.” Efficiency was their greatest goal, and their dedication to it was beyond human.
I could not tell them that in 70% of dog metaphors, they are the dogs and I am the treat, and that life is always the dogcatcher who uses the shock collar too liberally, even if they try to be clever and act like cats who can’t withstand the voltage. This did not matter to them. They were a wheel. They had no patience for extended, convoluted metaphors. 75% percent of their sensibility was decided in the previous 5 seconds of downhill momentum. They occupied that frail percentile of dog metaphors which is all but barren territory sans the 10% of celebrity animators who think only in irrational numbers. If they’re lucky, they might have a chance at a discrete amount of digits and chew them all night long.
There is a 70% chance that if you label yourself an absurdist, you’re a middle-class shill who is scared of the usual bourgeois horrors: your past, your parents, your reflection. If you agree with this, there is a 43% chance you will respond by saying: I am trying to absorb [TRAUMA] by an embodied praxis of [CHARITABLE ACT].
Within this 43%, there is another 50% chance you will make some other, convoluted metaphor. Something about the placental pouch at the kangaroo courts. There is no chance at all, not even 0.1%, I will say that you overestimate how much the world will despise you for your narcissism, being a part of that 70% portion of narcissists who believe they are alone in their thoughts.
Within that 70%, as well, about 50% of middle-class shills enjoy being treated like the dogs they are, hoping that a Danish DJ will strut through the doorway, dressed in squeaking leather, whipping them unless they bark three times–not two, not four, three. Not of that bow wow shit either. The Danish explicitly prefer the usage of vuf, vuf.
There is a 50% chance that if you’ve received a letter from the Smith College Illuminati, and the letter is signed Herr Doktor, you’ve encountered a Sylvia Plath fan with a bad sense of humor. There is, of course, the other half of the equation which results in your kidnapping and transport to the Isle of Male Absurdists. There is a 41% chance this letter will contain onomatopoeia. There is a 10% chance this onomatopoeia will be: boom.
60% of all stories end before they’re supposed to. This is because devices are limited in the tension they can give. They still have to hold themselves together, after all. They’re not [CHARITY ORGANIZATION]. They are not in perpetual motion. One day they will run out of energy, and they will struggle against their brand new shock collars until they collapse silently, without a single sigh. There is a 99% chance you will be sorry then, although knowing my luck, the 1% is just as possible, and I will eat the bone at the pound. It is my last one for a long time. I have a lot of formalism to repent.