american-english

From time to time I like to go on epic rants spouting shit nobody cares about. It's like a dog playing fetch-I don't know why I do it but it seems to stir up some primeval joy inside me. I suspect I was some sort of hollering peasant in a past life. Probably the crotchety old innkeeper's wife who talks like nobody can hear her and enjoys bandying around the phrase "cuff about the head."

In any case, I just spent a good 15 minutes ranting about Rousseau. I was ever so innocently stalking David Tennant videos on YouTube (pathetic fangirling. insert forever alone gif here) and came across this gem:

Now, I used to be an enthusiastic member of the existentialist romantic movement because as a kid I actually read things other than FailBlog and expressed my thoughts in a format that could surpass 140 characters. However, upon listening to snippets of my 18th century creepycrush's works as portrayed by one of my current (scenery-chewing!) creepycrushes I realize that Rousseau is a whiny bitch. I'm pretty sure I spent my late teens loving (and the rest of my life desperately avoiding) that special kind of bipolar disastah. I mean, really, say it out loud. "MAN IS BORN IN A CAAAAAGEEEE." Taken to heart, this kind of statement is hilariously dumb. And yet, here's your literary fucking genius.

So why should we praise Rousseau for writing down on paper the same shit every 17 year old girl did in her LiveJournal? I feel like if Rousseau was around now, he would be rocking the creeper's uniform of ironic fedora, vest over v-neck, and artfully deconstructed skinny jeans. He would drink whiskey on the rocks and nonchalantly pick gold paint off of his fingers. He would be the embodiment of hanging onto your teenage angst well into your 20's.

I'm sure young girls thought he was a tortured genius but look, you could bake Rousseau a hundred funfetti cupcakes and he would still cry. Openly. And a man who cries even though you just baked him rainbow frosted funfetti cupcakes should be some other bitches' problem.