Running With Scissors

When Dancing, Always Leave Some Room For Kierkegaard

"The more consciousness there is in such a sufferer who, in despair, wills to be himself, the more his despair intensifies and becomes demonic.

It usually originates as follows: A self that, in despair, wills to be itself, is pained in some distress or other that does not allow itself to be taken away from or separated from his concrete self. So now he makes precisely this torment the object of all his passion, and finally, it becomes a demonic rage. By now, even if God in heaven and all the angels offered to help him out of it—no, he does not want that, now it is too late.

Once he would gladly have given everything to be rid of this agony, but he was kept waiting; now it is too late, now he would rather rage against everything and be the wronged victim of the whole world and of all life, and it is of particular significance to him to make sure that he has his torment on hand and that no one takes it away from him- for then he would not be able to demonstrate and prove to himself that he is right."

That little nugget of wisdom was written by Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard, the father of existentialist philosophy. To understand him a bit more, all you have to know is that "kierkegård" means "graveyard" in Danish. Needless to say, he wasn't a bucket of rainbows.

That quote from his book, "Sickness Unto Death," to put it simply, states that once a person falls into despair, it becomes ingrained in them to the point that separating the person from the pain becomes impossible, as the person begins to revel in their own suffering.

Not even God with all its angels could will a man of his encroached pain.

Kierkegaard, of course, was a daft cuck who was riddled with indecision and despair his entire life, until he finally decided to fall dead on the streets at age 42, which some believed was the best decision he ever took in his life.

Nobody in their right mind would miss a lifeline if thrown to them by God or an angel. Lucky for us, Peter Katz was not in his right mind when, after opening the door, an angelical porcelain doll peeking from a bouquet of flowers was roughly thrust into his face.

"If you're trying to kill me by triggering my allergies," he said with a muffled voice, "it's not gonna work."

"Don't be funny now, Mr. Katz," said a sweet voice. Said sweet voice came from a not-so-sweet person. In fact, if we were to give that person an adjective, it would be "sourpuss."

"Sarah!" said Peter with faux joy. "Fancy seeing you here."

"For you, it's Ms. McGuffin," said Sarah, "and I assure you that there's nothing particularly fancy here."

"I have some really fancy furniture inside," said Peter, trying to lean seductively on the doorframe while simultaneously looking like a week-one homeless person.

Sarah leaned to the right to peek into Peter's apartment. All she could see is food everywhere and a very bloated Mr. Trash trying to stand up on. He was failing.

"Right," said Sarah. "I just came back to leave this flower arrangement."

It was a beautiful tulip bouquet, with white roses sprinkled throughout. A little statue of a cherub stood in the middle holding a card that read "Congratulations, it's a boy!"

"That's the only one they had in such short notice," said Sarah.

"I guess this ain't part of a weird courtship, 'cause I'm totally into it," said Peter.

"It's actually from Dr. George."

"Oh, then please tell him that I'm flattered, but I'm not into big bear types. I'm more of a twink guy myself," joked Peter.