I Love Humans

When I overhear people speak of revolution, of finding ourselves as humans and getting back to the basics, of removing government and becoming our own entity, I want to say, “Have you ever been to Walmart?”

I think about every experience I’ve had with other humans and I have to say that few have been joyful. Few have filled me with moments of awe or made me at least docile towards the human race. When I think of moments of awe, I think of being in the woods in northern Arizona. I think of the trees, as the wind of rain bends them before a storm. There are no humans in view and I have no mirrors with which to see myself. I am solely an inebriated spectator and I find solace in the fact that this view would exist even without me seeing it.

The majority of my human interactions are filled with confusion, misunderstanding, and a stumbling through language we all adhere to. The majority of interactions leave me frustrated and wishing I didn’t have to interact with humans at all.

We’ve all made our own symbols for each of the words we conjure. Nothing is concrete. The way a rock feels in your hand may be different than it feels to me. I am colorblind, so I can speak from experience that what looks green to me looks yellow to most people on the planet. They correct me and tell me that I’m wrong. It’s almost as if there was a worldwide test all humans took to make sure we understand the same things and I failed the color section and everyone knows it. They point it out when it hardens their cocks or wets their pussies. They point it out at any chance they get and I am left wondering who is right.

Coming from this perspective of how subjective everything truly is, I feel as though everything is that way. Love, to Jeffrey Dahmer, was much different than what I’m sure most of us consider love. Happiness, to Theodore Bundy, was much different than what I’m sure most of us consider happiness. However, hatred stands above all other emotive urgencies as something I believe we all understand on the same plane.

We may hate for different reasons, but we all hate something or someone or a group of people or an idea. We all have that in us. We may ignore it when we are presented with it. We may change the subject when someone brings it up because we want to be seen as “good,” but, when we are alone in our bedrooms, drunk, sober, or high on more pills than were prescribed, we all know hatred.

You may hate the way your screen door closes too quickly. You may hate the way your favorite band’s new album ends. You may hate your neighbor’s dog for barking through the night. You may hate the automatic sleep timer on your T.V. Most predominantly, you probably hate yourself. You see the way your stomach shows through your shirts and you think about ordering a 2XL the next time the option is presented to you. You hate the length of your hair, how you’re in that “awkward stage” and you just want to look like that celebrity you know everyone loves. You hate the open pores of your skin. You hate the cauliflower herpes growing around your cock or cunt. You hate the cancer you harvested, making you tired and worn before it’s your “time to go.”

All this self-hatred makes me wonder about its existence. It makes me wonder where it grew from. It makes me wonder why we exist, if we hate ourselves so much. Even the celebrities the “lesser” humans look towards hate themselves. This is the reason self-help books exist. This is the reason we find “love” in other humans: to validate ourselves as something that is wanted. But, when you are alone in your bathroom, closely inspecting the shadows of imperfection in your face, are you truly wanted? Do you honestly want to exist? Is it really that enjoyable? How are you sure that the person making you feel “wanted” isn’t lying to you just to have someone to talk to? And how do you know you’re not just doing the same?

You may tell yourself that you’re making a difference, working the job you bitch about to your significant other, but what difference are you making? If you were a social worker, finding homes for children whose parents are nearly dead or already there, what difference would you really be making?

Perhaps you find a home for one of those children and they get a good job that pays them a wage where they can save money and live in a luxurious house. Perhaps that child goes on to find a career in medicine and eventually finds a cure for cancer. Perhaps he or she eradicates the largest epidemic that has surfaced on the film of soup that is human existence. Why is that a good thing? Why is preserving life valuable? Why can’t we just accept death?

We have recently developed a fear of nonexistence that I cannot comprehend. I don’t understand why a human would want to live longer. I don’t understand why a human would want to be subjected to this life that we all say we love when, really, we hate ourselves deep down. You may say that I’m melodramatic and that I’m just a pissant who can’t find anything positive to live for and I would say you’re completely correct.

I cannot imagine a future for humanity that would make me happy. We are a mistake, yet we continue to live as though we deserve to be on this planet. We continue to believe we have a right to copulate and spread our diseases onto every other living thing. Why can’t we just leave it be? Why can’t we agree to disappear instead of looking for validation in other compilations of atoms that also just want some other compilation of atoms to notice them? Why do we need that? Why do we need someone to tell us how well we did? Why do we need Jesus as the gates saying, “Well done, my good and faithful servant?” We do we need to feel solace for our meaningless lives?

It seems to me that we need to accept how unfortunate our existence is. It seems to me that we need to understand the things we’ve created and how the snowball won’t stop until we all die. It seems to me that, if you walk into any Walmart in the United States, you will realize that we outlived our usefulness the moment we existed.