Life of the opinion

 

Let me just start by saying that I have opinions and that they matter. Let me tell you about all my opinions, and then change them according to my perceptions of popular opinions. Let me cover my old stupid and wrongful predictions by sending out a torrent of new ones. Let me write articles about right fashion and give incoherent political statements about the world according to my changing beliefs.  Let me give you some advice on stocks and bonds, and then continue to give more advice when I’m wrong and say: nobody saw that crash coming, nobody saw that platform shoes would be passé. Or say nothing except continue to predict, and then predict the predictions of the predictors. Let me give you advice on how to advance your career, when my career is to give my petty opinions about how other people live their lives.

Let me guide you on that raft you have built out of your own misunderstandings about reality, and show you the way once the wave of popular opinion comes flowing. Let me abandon you once it hits too hard and surf some new fad I discovered. I race into being the first opinion holder and that makes me happy, regardless of the opinion. My mouth is an automatic machine that forms opinions in milliseconds according to circumstances, shooting them out before I get the chance to think them through.  Being there in the fray of opinion makers is my striving, being heard and participating in world-changing debates about cupcakes. I get sexually aroused by giving advice on sex. I get sexually aroused by giving advice on unruly teenagers. I get sexually aroused by lambasting bad guys, and wrong opinions, and telling the world that I matter and advising on giving advice. I feel powerful being an extremist, and I feel wise and normal and accepted when moderating my opinions to suit my audience. I join political parties to show that I’m serious, and change sides to show that I’m even more serious. I incriminate the world with my words on diet and promiscuous dancing on TV.

However I know a way of flying above this nonsense, I know how to desensitise myself from the nature of this wilful struggle for relevance. I just spew enough garbage out that every word and every sentence eventually becomes utterly meaningless. The commentary of my commentary becomes the commentary of comments, so I raise myself above those petty sidestepping-debates and critique the critiques. This is how I am the voice inside your head telling you what to think about thinking. And thus I transcend all that garbage; I will be on my way forming incoherent casual links somewhere else.