Here’s a dirty little secret. I’m an Ayn Rand fan. I’ve read “The Fountainhead” more times than I can remember and “Atlas Shrugged” three times. Love them both. I don’t agree with everything she says –I’m not totally insane — but I agree with the bulk and certainly with the spirit of the work.

What do I like about this Russian born defender of the plutocracy who wrote rape fantasy sci-fi? (Aside from the fact that she’s a Russian born defender of the plutocracy who wrote rape fantasy sci-fi.) It certainly isn’t her economics. Those are as rational as Marx. Rational has no place in economics. That shit is voodoo. The pet rock proves it.

No, it’s Ayn’s sense of life. Perhaps this is because every personality test I take tells me that I’m an INTP, which is apparently the same as her protagonist Howard Roark. All I know is that when I first read “The Fountainhead” I saw my feelings put into a clear and simple world view. I wanted to cheer when someone asked Howie what he thought of them and Howie said: “I don’t think of you.”

This is a hard and ruthless sentiment. And it’s one that I share. But it’s difficult to explain it to people who think differently. I don’t do anything to bother, offend, shock or please anyone. I do it because I want to do it. Because I think it’s right. (Or amusing.) Other people are completely irrelevant to me. Their tastes are their own. Mine are mine. I can get along with anyone who accepts that. Even then I usually manage to offend them. Being my friend often means being offended.

Sometimes it’s a misunderstanding based on a previously undetected difference in philosophical premises. [Now that is one ugly motherfucker of a sentence. I should be shot for writing that, let alone thinking it.] Sometimes not.

When people present their emotions to me, I can be very cruel without cruel intent. I don’t understand the importance of emotions. A good friend of mine once sat me down to explain what a conscience is. I’m still not sure that I believe in such a thing. Something is good or bad based on reason. Having a feeling about it is . . . Well, I think it’s kind of silly.

I understand emotions as evolutionary prods. If something is wrong it will make you sad, angry or afraid. So correct it. When you get it right, you’ll be happy. But people try to change their emotions without dealing with reality. And if you can’t change the reality you just have to accept it. That can be hard. I actually have sympathy for people in that sort of situation. Often the people who most want to act on their grief and change the reality are the ones most hurt when they cannot. They’re the ones that acceptance comes hardest to. It’s just not in their nature. So they’re hanged by their own virtue. That’s my definition of shitty.

Like Ayn, I hate grief and suffering. They’re nothing to be proud of. They’re not virtues. They’re symptoms of problems. Problems need to be stamped out. Life should be about joy and solving problems. They go hand in hand. That’s why a joke –even a dirty one– makes you laugh. It’s an odd and sudden solution to a problem. It transcends conventional morality.

When people feel grief without acting on it, I have no sympathy. Their grief is useless. The display is disgusting. It’s usually a monkey trap. Instead of just dropping the food and removing their arm from the trap, most people just cry and shriek. They expect someone to help them. Meanwhile the first person on the scene chops off their head and eats them. If you’re my friend, that’s usually me. You can recognize me by the axe.

It’s blunt.

For me, that’s friendship. The ability to be blunt.

But I’m getting wiser as I get older. I’ve learned that my friends often just want to feel better without actually doing anything about their problems. And kind words can help. I don’t understand it but I’ll pretend to. Even if I feel sick and wrong for petting and feeding a monkey in a trap. Even if I know that I should put them out of their misery, chop off their arm or rip the nut from their hand. Encouraging a bunch of emotional nonsense is a betrayal. Of them and me.

But that’s how it is. That’s how people like it so that’s how they’ll get it. I’ll pretend to understand. Sometimes I’ll even give people hugs. Not very fucking often, mind you. But I am trying. I still think you’re a bunch of infants who have confused whining with sensitivity and insincere display with actual affection. So I’m still fucking up. But I am trying.

It gets harder with every passing day.

And this post was almost as long and pointless as one of her books. Go figure.