I’m not saying that I don’t care about anything, because apathy that extreme is a trait shared only by the most hardened of sociopaths and the most idle of potheads.  What I mean is that I really don’t care about possessions.  As long as there is no emotional or sentimental value attached to them, it’s just an object with which I can have my way.  Now, if a friend or loved one were to give me an object for the sole purpose of keeping it safeguarded, then I would be on high alert for any nick or scratch that it may attract.  However, that’s only because I want to be trusted, not because I actually give a shit about what happens to your PS3 while you’re on vacation.  For the thing itself, I have zero fucks, but for a friend’s emotional attachment to that thing, I have a plethora of fucks to give.  For actual human beings, I have a whole Santa Claus sized satchel of bottomless fucks which I will gladly distribute amongst men, women, and children alike.  Not that I don’t appreciate material possessions for their practical uses, as living in a crappy apartment has made me nostalgic of the days in which I had an operational dishwasher; however, I have never understood the value of aesthetics.  Who cares about water rings on the coffee table?  Why does it matter if there’s a fist-sized hole in the dry wall?  So what if my bed sheets have bloodstains?  It’s all secondary nonsense.

The other day, I was enlisted to help a friend of mine  move him and his girlfriend (who I will call Myrtle) into a new apartment, because he didn’t want to pay for professional movers.  I’m not complaining about that part, because taking advantage of your buddy’s free time to exploit him for manual labor is what friendship is all about.  I’m on board with that.  Then, what I came to find out was that I was the only one who had actually responded to the request.  Still, no complaints.  I told him I would help, so I’m going to suck it up and do just that.  It was right around the time that the two of us were carrying a very heavy dresser down a steep, and narrow flight of stairs that my friend says to me “Be careful with the edges.  Myrtle is going to kill me if we scratch this thing.”  I swear to you, If I didn’t have a 250 pound dresser sitting squarely on my neck at the time, I would have cocked back and dick-punched him right then and there.  Fuck your dresser.  I’m going to have ten years of spinal issues from this day alone.  With that in mind, the true depth of their materialism didn’t really sink in until later in the day when we had the moving truck all loaded up on our way to the new apartment, and there was a slight crash followed immediately by a jarring of the box truck.  Being that I was in the middle seat and had zero visibility, and therefore no awareness of what was going on around us, I was forced to draw conclusions from the reactions of my two cohorts.  My friend had a frozen expression, but Myrtle’s eyes shot open in horror as she covered her mouth and let out a slight moan of anguish.  Now, judging by her terror-stricken reaction, I thought it was safe to assume we had just run over a small child, or at the very least, a dog or cat.  As I sat there with my heart suspended at the base of my throat, she says, with tears welling up in her eyes  “Oh my god, was that the dresser falling over?”

Maybe I’m just old-fashioned, but I’ve always been a firm believer in the philosophy of “If it’s not broke, don’t fix it.”  That’s why my car looks like it was driven through a riot:  dented hood, scratch marks down the side, caved in rear bumper.  As long as the thing continues to serve the purpose for which it was created, I see no reason to fret.  On that note, even if it is broken, nothing that is devoid of feelings is worth your anger, spite, or despair.  People (and sometimes pets) are the only things worth serious emotional investment. Everything else is replaceable.