“And I, will die with both of my hands untied..”
-morrissey
Two disgusting forms of control:
Advice and “Caring”.
I recently started smoking. Yep, at 30 plus years old (wouldn’t you like to know just how many ‘plus’), knowing full well the health risks, societal judgement, and overall shock it’s caused in almost everyone I know, I’m now a puffer. Prior to sitting down at my laptop to write this, (flanked by a pair of headphones and a tall rum & coke), I enjoyed a smooth, refreshing Camel menthol. And I mean I enjoyed it. Now, personal Cash benefits of this new hobby aside (which will no doubt warrant an entire post of their own at some point), smoking has really opened my eyes to certain traits of the people in my life.
There are officially two factions;Â the knowers, and the controllers.
The knowers realize that there are exactly three things that will get me to stop doing anything that gives me pleasure:
1. It no longer works.
The second I can no longer roll, feel the lightheaded wonderment of a neighborhood walk with two lungs full of smoke, or the instantaneous confidence, wide eyed awake-ness and overall thrill of, er. something else, I’m out. There’s a reason people have their vices. Enjoying the fuck out of them is the first and foremost for everyone.
2. I decide to stop.
This decision would be a completely independent one, motivated by exactly three people: me, myself, and I.
3. I die.
Pretty self explanatory. One can only hope it’s in the hyper-pleasurable grips of one of my naughtier vices that my time comes.
These people, the knowers, are wonderful, loving, altogether kick ass members of the Cash fraternity who barely batted an eye when they learned the tabacco laden news. Some find smoking positively disgusting. For them, out of respect, I do my best to keep the smoke out of their eyes. Others are smokers themselves, and have helped me learn the tricks of the trade (inhaling is something I worked a week on before a good friend, the ultimate knower, showed me an easy technique).
I have a quote, a lifetime mantra I’ve never shared with anyone that I’m about to spring on you, dear readers:
I love no man, or woman, more than I love their right to seek out and embrace pleasure.
Whatever the cost. Whatever the vice. I support them.
You can sit there with your judging eyes and call me a true enabler. Might be closer to the truth to call me a true friend. I put their own joy above any sense of ‘responsibility’ to keep them healthy, or do anything else that might interfere with their pursuit of happiness.
Now, on the other hand, we have the controllers.
Controllers are the ones who, in mock shock horror and disgust when learning the news, transformed immediately into insta-pundits, singing their tainted gospel from the most mis-shapen of soapboxes.
Advice; oh, they had it in spades.
“You know that’ll kill you, right?”
“You’re gonna stink..bad”
“Make sure you limit it to just a few a day, trust me!”
But you know what?
I don’t trust you.
I don’t trust anyone but myself when it comes to matters of vice. Everyone, from Barack Obama to that sleeping homeless guy you stepped over trying to get to the ATM outside the 7-11, has their own moral code. Shaped by everything from upbringing, peer pressure and pop culture to far more significant matters of their own views on mortality, everyone has their own code. Mine, dear friends, is a lot different than yours.
Advice, no matter how ‘genuine’ is ultimately a power play in which the giver attempts to speak to the receiver from a position of ‘authority’. A position that almost always includes condesension. No matter how sincere their wish to ’save you from making their same mistakes’ may seem, ultimately, advice is an attempt to control you.
“Caring” is worse. Much, much worse. People will play to your emotions with this one.
“You know I’m only saying this because I love you..”
“I can’t bear the thought of losing you..”
“I don’t want you to suffer, I’m here to help”
Bullshit. Bullshit. And Bullshit. If you truly loved me you’d love my independence, and respect my intelligence enough to let me make my own decisions.  You can’t bear the thought of losing me? Guess what cowboy? You’re gonna lose me. You’re gonna die, and I’m gonna die. Who goes first? Who knows? Who cares:
EVERYONE IN THE ENTIRE HUMAN RACE IS A SLAVE TO MORTALITY
Some of us are wise enough to accept this fact, others, not so much.
Trying to make someone do what you say based on the fact that they ‘care’ about you makes me want to vomit. My most eloquent statement? Nope. One of my most sincere? Yep.
So there it is ladies and gentlemen. Cash’s treatise on “advice” and “caring”.
My advice on the matter? Don’t fall for either.
