‘I’m really sorry dude-’
‘Don’t pity me man.’
To these people I say, ‘Damn you – Damn you all the way to the Pity Monster!’
People who reject pity are a bit like Givers – those who are less comfortable receiving so they surplant their emotional disorder by always giving instead of taking. While they may have themselves convinced of their own benevolence, often times it’s an act of convinience and vanity. The business of self-gratification.
[Although given the imminent silly season it should be noted Givers usually give fukn
awesome Christmas presents, so having one or two in your arsenal of friends isn’t that bad.]
Pity fukn rules!
It is the gauze between the Bandaid and scrape of emotional hurt.
Pity revels in a sub-genre to the sisters of Empathy and Sympathy, which is what makes us human right?
That’s why all you sycophants, with your solcitude and bathetic gestures out there that slurry pity’s name can go fuck yourselves too! Shame on you. You know who you are – cos you say shite like this:
‘Oh you poor thing!’
“It will be alright.’
Compassion is a rare commodity. So don’t disregard it, and dispense it like pennies for beggars (unless you only got pennies – and then I’d advise you to keep them for yourself) – cos no one benefits from left-over pity except the Pity Monster!
Aferall, pity is some people’s emotional bread and butter than gets them through life, like tepid showers. For others it’s a vitamin supplement – or vessel of solace, ferrying them across seas of melancholy in search of the next fleeting glimpse at happiness.
Consider the end sequence in Adaptation, Charlie Kaufman’s self-reverential film directed by Spike Jonze – where with true pathos Charlie reconciles his admiration for his brother Donald, while hiding from gun-toting John Laroche in the Everglades. He recounts a memory of watching Donald’s high school love, Sarah Marshal and her friend Kim Kinety laugh at Donald’s expense when his back is turned after flirting with Sarah:
‘You didn’t know at all – You seemed so happy.’
‘I knew, I heard them.’
‘W-well, how come you were so happy?’
‘I loved Sarah Charles. It was mine – that love, I owned it. And even Sarah didn’t have the right to take it away. I can love whoever I want.’
‘But she thought you were pathetic.’
‘That was her business, not mine. You’re what you love, not what loves you…’
So I inveigle you all to rejoice in pity – let it nourish you like a pity fuck, or misery and warm soup on a cold day.
But whatever you do, don’t knock it! And don’t dole it out in platitudes with false humility, or reject it because its all fodder for the Pity Monster to ‘pity da fools.’