The Evil of Cute

"You're so cute, I could just eat you!"  Thank God they never did.  What is it about cuteness, though, that inspires threats of pinching, twisting, squeezing, and biting?  In short, why does cuteness foment violence?

We can begin by agreeing that these violent impulses are not consciously thought about, rationalized, or planned out.  Rather, they are automatic and sub/unconscious, akin to laughing or blushing (albeit, much more sinister).  So where do they come from?  Let's briefly turn to them kooky psychoanalysts: Freud & and friends.

You may reply to this by saying: "Hey!  I ain't no mother-lovin' psycho because I pinch when I baby talk".  Not so fast, crazy.  Freud said that pain inflicted and received in love is sadomasochism.  To paraphrase: Freud believed that sadomasochists inflict pain on others to express love.
So why does Auntie S&M get pleasure out of expressing her love by inflicting pain on me?  Well, according to Freud, sex is naturally rough stuff.   Sadism is that sexual aggression that's gotten out of hand.  If you you're familiar with good ol' Sigmund you've probably noticed that love and violence go hand in hand for him.  Sadism is when the violent part starts flying off the handle.
Since I could go on for much longer than good taste will allow I'm going to end it here.  Am I serious about all of this baby-talk-pinchy-squeezey-s&m?  I don't remember. However, it does get me thinking.
We may not all have OCD but we all have some obsessive compulsions.  We may not be schizophrenic, but a good self-esteem requires some delusions.  We may not all be into S&M bondage, but at times we may mistake our aggression for affection.
It becomes clear that there are not two distinct groups of "crazy" and "sane".  Rather, there is a mental health continuum and we all dot it from one end to the other.  Where does the crazy start and sane end?  I hope not at the whim of social caprice...but I am pessimistic.  

What I listened to while typing: Flying Lotus - Nose Art

Splice

Nothing, nothing, nothing (the kind of the nothing that exists out from under the blanket of the universe) followed by four, seven, nine, six, four, eight, three. I was in the middle of mouthing the phone number written on my chest.

Several years later, while traipsing the aisles of a Whole Foods with my wife, I realized I had been sleepwalking. I still don't know how I overlooked the gaping memory blind spot of how I ended up standing naked in front of a mirror in a friend's dark bathroom for so long. When I woke up, my eyes were already focused on the digits clearly written over my heart, my lips were in the middle of forming the numbers.

I quickly scanned through the events of the night, slowing at the highlights that would become long term memories.

The girls skipping down the brick street.
A waiter dancing on the table.
A misunderstanding with a taxi driver.

The number on my chest in the mirror wasn't in my handwriting. It was written in a deep black with beautiful curves and dangerous angles.

Dancing in a Chinatown basement.
Southern Comfort.
Rain.
I walked her home.
The ballpoint tickling my palm.

I looked at the number on my chest in the mirror. I could read it. I looked down at my chest. The number was backwards. I looked at my right palm.

I placed my hand over my heart as if I were reciting a bizarre pledge of allegiance. The numbers fit perfectly. The alcohol induced sweat transferred the number from my hand to my heart.


What I listened to while typing:  Son House - Death Letter Blues/John the Revelator