One of the burdens of genius is finding tactful ways to let other people know that their ideas and opinions are complete bullshit.
This is difficult for two reasons. First, true geniuses are often misunderstood, so they must speak with a clarity and precision that most people find irritating. And two, most people cannot smell the stink of their own mental sewage, so they would rather breathe their own fetid fumes than step up to the oxygen bar of genius and take a big, purifying whiff of truth.
I have been a genius my entire life, so I can personally attest to the fact that it is no fun to be shunned, like Galileo, by your fellow man, or dismissed as a crank, like Charles Manson, or told, by your psychiatrist, that you should just shut up and take your medication before the demons come back.
From where I sit, on my mental mountaintop, it looks like as if the entire world is trapped in a kind of Stockholm syndrome of stupidity. Held captive by multinational media conglomerates, fed a steady diet of mediocrity, and beaten into submission by constant viewing, night after night, of American Ninja Warrior and the X Factor, the American public has come to identify with its abusers and, as a survival tactic, flips meekly through the Netflix catalogue in search of one more series it can binge-watch before having to return to the entertainment hell of network television.
I have been warning people of this intellectual apocalypse for some time, of course, and have written extensively about the dangers of not reading what I write. But, because I have been categorized as a “genius,” people tend to ignore my warnings and go on with their lives as if nothing is wrong.
On those occasions when I have taken to the street with my message, abandoning the confines of the printed page for the freedom of the public square, the crowds have been receptive. However, mothers with small children, no doubt afraid that my message will have undue influence on their wee ones, often cross to the other side of the street when they see me. Which is a pity, because altering the minds of the young is the first step toward altering the mind of society, which is the first step toward getting people to appreciate how I saw all of this coming but no one listened, and to understand that when the shit hits the fan, don’t come running to me, because it’ll be too late. I’ll be in the Caribbean by then, sipping rum punches and watching the apocalypse from a beach chair in the Bahamas.
What I’m trying to say, I guess, is that the burden of being right all the time is a heavy one. It is a burden geniuses carry, largely unnoticed and unrecognized, so that other people can live their pathetic lives, unencumbered by the weight and gravity of inconvenient truths. Ignore us if you dare—hey, it’s a free country (for now). But when things really go off the rails—when, say, Donald Trump is elected president, or The Dome comes back for a fourth season, or it turns out that gluten is good for you after all—don’t come running to us.
We’re outta here.