I remember as though it were a meal ago...

To this day I cannot fully explain the forces which called me forth from the Uberfetal Ether, the great Sky-Incubator where dreams and fears collide to create men. I trust that divinity has its reasons for tearing me from the nuturing womb, and trust is enough to accept survival. Earth is a harsh realm, a place more foreign than home to the human spirit. This blue orb is neither our home nor our destination, but rather a starting point, a second (or third?) amniotic sac for the unready. The caterpillar has not yet conceived of flight.

A child, in a box, alone, with his hands over his ears, rocking. Here is your truth, little boy. Here is your god, your science, your country. Here are the games a little boy ought to play, here is how proper boys comport themselves at supper. Play with the other boys and girls like a good boy. "You know, in my day, we had no Nintendo. We played outside. My parents didn't drive me anywhere; we just walked around and there was always a game on somewhere." Be quiet, Daddy. I'm not even playing the game. I'm looking right through the screen. There's another world, a numb world, that's more real. So just be quiet Daddy. If my youth is wasted, it is because all youth is waste. Earth is foreign. Life is long.

Education is the hallmark of a civilized man. You gotta be good, you gotta put your time in at the factory. This here farm raises domesticated H. sapiens and that big ol' plant down there processes them. Progress is a byproduct of the limitations of human imagination. You say man dared to dream and invented the wheel. I say the fertile mind is a trap, a trick that forces geniuses to either change the world or be unhappy in the one we have. Created in the image of our creator, we too create. The naked world is too boring for a primate's mind. Those men who cannot live on faith alone must learn to divert themselves, if they are to be viable. So give our children the what and not the why, because nothing distracts like names and numbers. Proper penmanship is essential to human survival. This should be plain to any civilized man. Without money and status and grades, you are an ape, my boy. The sandbox without any toys is indistinguishable from a desert. Get all A's and be nice to your mother and enlightenment is yours. We are all civil men here.

Life is short. Like the horny and quick-to-die field mouse, we scramble around trying to find good genetics. When we find the right genes, our creative duty is to blanket them in semen and produce a more advanced specimen of the species. This is the most holy creation man can ever witness. You may create works just like the Creator intended, but only through ejaculation can man become Creator and create something else with the power to create. Orgasm, life's ultimate catharsis. But what have we done here? We've wrapped it up in so much love and pain. Fuck may be your purpose but it is not your god. Creation, or lack thereof, has broken my soul and brought me to the brink. I've orgasmed in guilt. I've reacted in anger toward the orgasms of others. I need love to cum, not the other way. If this is why we're here, why did it feel better to share my tears than to share my sperm? Why don't they love me anymore? Why do I love them?

I sit in my chair and decompose. Give me a fucking reason to care. I dare you. Let me pop my Prozac and ecstasy. I could live through you, if you let me. If you see me going to sleep, and using a pall for a blanket, wake me. Show me the hourglass. It's not frozen yet. Maybe youth was a waste, but it didn't have to be. It's time to be born. Leave this womb, crawl down through this cervix, breathe the new air.

Cry, infant, cry! Tell them you've arrived!!

...but I'm not there yet

warm and pleasant in here.
Mmmmm, dar.


Quit that scratching you bastards!

Ouch! Stop that!


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