Need someone more stubbornly positive than I am negative

 

I guess I've given the impression that I might consider life to be worth living or that, for better or worse, I'm having a go at it. Not hardly. 

A hamster might look like he's having fun on that little wheel, but it's the desperation of boredom, not some thrill of movement or sense of accomplishment, that fuels his the little routine. And, sure, his tiny version of consciousness may allow him to be distracted by the one allotment of activity given to him by his benevolent captors. 

Likewise, I'm just making use of the small elements of comfort available to me in my particular prison.

The fact that I'm here, most days, complaining about the way things are, must indicate that I haven't given up, though, right? If I just lay down and die, shut up and give in to the process by which all life must terminate, will that be the proof you need? 

The fact that, although drowning, I keep taking a gulp of air once in a while, shouldn't give the impression that all is well, and the rescue party should be called off. 

"He's ok, he's just water camping. He'll be aight. Why look, he just cared about something right there. He looked up the correct spelling of the ghetto hipster version  of 'alright.' He's fine."

I need someone to yell at me. To argue with me, but not just throwing platitudes at me without backing their shit up. I need these arguments to be strong and convincing. What the fuck is so all fired great about life? Why should I be elated and not disgusted by it? 

Give me your best positive motivational reason for getting out of bed in the morning. Snails in the garden isn't cutting it. I'm looking for something that is a little less "if you don't do this, then worse things will happen" and more along the lines of "this feels good, this is what life is all about."

So, whomever is going to be my sparring partner must understand that I take my job of devil's advocate seriously. I will shoot holes in all your wonderful arguments. And as fast as you patch the holes in your flawed apologetic of life's basic worth, I will look for cracks in the patching material, subvert the adhesive in your duct-taped vessel and try to sink your battleship. 

I am alive, but I don't think I can be convinced that this is such a good thing. I beg, I defy you to prove otherwise.

But I suppose that since I've given up on happiness and myself in general, I am not worth the effort for some outside entity to come in and try to salvage. I mean, who in the world would sign up for a job like that? 

Even for a paid career motivational counselor, I'd be looked upon as an outlier, a troublemaker and one to be banned at the gate. The disclaimer "unless you want to help yourself, I can't help you" would be invoked, to insure that I don't dilute their success ratio with my resilient depression.

Sharon was the greatest opponent that I ever had, but life kind of proved my argument by taking her. The fact that she played the game so valiantly, right up until the end, doesn't prove that the game is worth the candle, only that she believed that it was. Stubbornly and fiercely, calmly and rationally, right up until the very last minute. 

But death won anyway. It always wins. So, I guess I don't have anything to prove. The proof is all right there in the pudding. And the pudding is poop.

Ultimately, it's all poop. The winners are the life forms that feed on poop, like worms and bacteria. Is that the positive rebuttal? I can't wait to see how wonderful the world of bacterial parasites is, as compared to this human existence. Will they have TV shows and omelets? Do their feelings get hurt? Any existential angst in the world of decomposers? I'm literally dying to find out.