The tale, I suppose, starts with Mr. Narcissus himself. A ravishingly handsome Greek lad, he broke the hearts of many adoring women, including the nymph Echo. Which, if you can dig up your 10th grade reading comprehension, was a seriously bad move. In revenge, Echo doomed him to a life spent vainly staring at his own reflection.
Short story short, he ended up kicking the bucket pretty early.
Now, the thing about Greek mythology is that the stories...are just weird. Nymphs, Sirens, Gods, Goddesses, heroes, and men all coinciding in one strange universe, living these lives of metaphor-turned-reality, and so and so forth. And to top it off, most of these tales ended up being completely contradictory anyway. How come Narcissus suffered an inevitable doom, while pompous heroes such as the infallible Hercules triumphed in the annals of Greek history? You read these stories, thinking about how lame and gullible these ancient Grecians were, believing in all the fable bullshit fed to them by priestly story tellers.
But frankly, the actual irritating part thing about mythology is that you probably come to the realization that they at least had understandable insight behind why the world works the way it does. Our generation has traded in fable bullshit for scientific bullshit; which in actually, most of us will never come to comprehend anyway. Ok, so I’m a vapid narcissist. Which, according to modern psychology, is a mental disorder. But why? Why do I care so much about myself? In essence, my personality problem allows me to stand out amongst the status-accepting droids, existing each day of their monotonous lives.
I guess with me, it comes down to this: in mythology, I would’ve been a Hercules. Today, I have a mental instability.
So, to avoid more lengthy introduction allegories, this blog is pretty much going to be me bitching about the world, and life. And, in the vapid narcissist fashion, avoiding putting any blame on myself.
Because I’m that fantastically glorious.