There’s a little negativity circulating the Vice writer, Cat Marnell. All sorts of criticisms have been made; her style, her content and her libido?
Now, to be fair, I couldn’t give a fuck if Marnell never wrote again. There’s nothing she can do that a thousand others can’t or don’t. And Sleeplessness knows I have enough dead hedonists stalking the unread pile of books next to my mattress.
Here comes the clincher though, her words aren’t nearly as important as her grit. I like having a reference point for rock bottom and it helps ever so much that the one I’ve found in Marnell is aesthetically pleasing. She represents that unbridled nihilism (and perhaps just a fictional one at that) that blinks yes for authenticity.
The bloggers that have slated her attempts at long form narcissism seem to forget the very point of the exercise. Thought provoking entertainment, a thing that needs authenticity to scratch all the right places.
Instead of reaching out why don’t thy do what the rest of us are doing, enjoying the spectacle. Their misplaced agency is wanted by people who want to live but are forced by circumstances to face death. Marnell has all right circumstances but none of the desire, and what’s more she reiterates how drug abuse remains her choice. She stands defiant and like John Wilmot, she’ll probably crumble into a steaming pile of diseased consequence.
Don’t forget that hedonism needs martyrs too, like Doug Stanhope said in Deadbeat Hero, “life isn’t for everybody, some of us should check out.”
Of course they can keep phaffing about, treating the blogosphere like the moral Olympics but I’d prefer if they played along and applauded along with the rest of us as while Marnel spirals onwards.
I, like everyone else, need a little break from meaning at times, and there’s nothing quite like watching that old unconsenting sodomite, Mrs Existential Crises, have her fun.
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