I’m going to say some pretty nasty things about some pretty nasty people. I will not change their names in order to spare their feelings or save them from public embarrassment. I don’t care about their feelings. In fact, generally speaking, I don’t really care about most people’s feelings.
There’s too many people out there with too many feelings, too many cry-babies who can’t take the harshness of life before swallowing a fistful of pills or without the safety and comfort of Facebook, a place perfectly designed for those needing to spill their emotional guts without having to achieve that annoying little thing called genuine human interaction.
This isn’t a generalized rant against the system, though it may seem so at first. Today I’m ranting against a particular group of people indigenous to…well, this planet. You can find this type of person in all corners of the world. This person can be a man, a woman, both, or neither. This person comes in all kinds of physical shapes and forms. This person can be tall, short, fat, skinny, blond, blue-eyed, big-nosed, muscular, wimpy, black, white, orange, pretty, ugly, old, young, whatever. Some of these people are stylish, taking care to notice and participate in every fashion trend they pick up on the streets of whatever city they live in. Others dress at Wal-Mart, if they live over there across the big blue ocean, or at a local Chinese store if they live over here in the Old World. This type of person is often well educated. In fact, the educated are probably the worst kind. Though, sometimes you can run into a half-literate boob that could easily win the prestigious title of the President of all the No People.
Because, you see, I am talking about that group of people we all know and hate, the No People. Who are the No People? Well, if you have to ask, then I’m afraid you just might be one of them. Heaven help you if you are; blogging certainly won’t.
I have recognized a No Person in quite a few people living around me. My father, for one. Growing up with him, I learned a simple motto by which he lived: Fear Everything! Serbian parents often stunt the mental and social development of their children by imposing upon them limitations totally and completely out of keeping with the modern world. As an ethnic group we lack that American rah-rah spirit, that “We can do anything!” mentality. Success, we believe, isn’t really something you can achieve by effort, talent, or a combination of both; it’s mostly something that either misses you completely, or falls right into your lap by chance, luck, or an act of God. In case you were wondering, as you must have been, this is exactly why most Serbian people never really try. My father imposed upon me his own shortcomings, small fears and giant phobias, his lack of ambition and his overwhelming lack of self-confidence, believing that frightening the shit out of me will somehow keep me safe from the horrors of the outside world. Serbians of the world, prove me wrong, if you can.
A No Person is that friend of yours who can never find enough time to answer your e-mail, or even an urgent text message. Good luck to you if you ever find yourself standing on the side of the road with a flat tire, putting all your faith in that guy who has told you a hundred times he’ll always be there for you with his jack lift. A No Person is that old friend who happens to be performing a must of musts, an inescapable and sacred act of clipping his toe nails on the very day you’re moving into your new apartment and really need a hand moving that big old couch from your basement into your new living room. A No Person is that guy who’d really rather not lend you his car so you can make it to that job interview in the morning because, well, the muffler is kind of loose and the noise it’s making really is kind of strange. A No Person is that woman you work with whose children call her every five minutes, every single work day, only because she’s a terrible parent and her spawn are a bunch of imbeciles always looking for their shoelaces or their house keys or their father(s). A No Person is that cashier at the grocery store who can never find enough change, or a smile; smiling, of course, being a habit she lost back in 1973 (along with her virginity, one presumes).
A No Person is my neighbor Dragan, a man with a beer belly so large it has developed its own personality and a popular Facebook page, a man so cynical about every topic under the sun that any conversation with him always inevitably must lead to his conclusion, “No, you’re wrong, that can’t be possible.” I suppose when you live your life incapable of ever seeing your own feet, most things must seem impossible.
A No Person is any and all of my aunts, women who kill me with their advice about marriage every single time I happen to be within shouting distance. Marriage, according to them, is that sacred principle by which we all must live, though love, they’ve found by trial and error, doesn’t exists. Show me one happily married aunt, and I will show you ten of mine with marriages as successful and happy as a series of nasty car wrecks.
A No Person is anyone who has ever in any way, shape, or form, discouraged you from doing anything in your life. A No Person is anyone stupid enough to think that just because they never could, you can’t either. A No Person is that annoying someone with an unsolicited negative comment after every sentence that comes out of your mouth. A No Person is anyone who has ever raised his/her eyebrows whenever you mentioned doing something new, different, or challenging. A No Person is anyone who doesn’t believe.
Don’t be a No Person. Believe!