Go To Hell, Albert Camus
Goddammit, Al. Really, godfuckingdammit, Al–why did you have to question what for hundreds of years went unquestioned? The sheer absurdity of life. I could have fallen for you at the start, but no, you had to go and unveil your ambivalence about the only absolute motherfucking thing in the world, death. Or, more accurately, the absolution of suicide. It’s perfect, see, it’s in my control the whole way. But then you come along, bringing Husserl, Heidegger, Kierkegaard, and the other heavies to back up your argument.
Well, fuck you.
I was in love with the idea. I saw through it all, just like you. I had my own revolt, against following the rules and abiding by the structure that gives our social fabric it’s heft. And here you stroll, cigarette in one hand, pen in the other, tearing hole right through my intention.
Why couldn’t you leave me alone? It’s my life, and my death, and my art. You can’t change that with words. This is real. Yet somehow you were able to talk me down off the ledge–or mountain, if you want me to be so literal–and here I am, now mired in the muck of what you and I both agreed was sick, tiresome, futile, and absurd.