Thursday, March 12, 2015

Existential Insult Comic

Sex and the nature of mortality can be a source of pleasure, but for you they're a source of relentless anxiety and occasional bitter laughter.

Everything you will ever accomplish is really just because of a parasite that lives in you and is hungry for achievement and validation. Achievement and validation only exist because other people with parasites make them exist.

Your need to impose your identity on everyone you meet has isolated you almost incurably. You know how when you're having sex with someone, you wish you were having sex with someone? And you think, "I'm just decadent! Like when I light one cigarette, then I light another one before the first one is even done"? Well, the person you wish you were having sex with is yourself; you've just forgotten how to recognize them.

During high school you were awkward and unpopular, but you knew you would have a bright future. Now you feel like you peaked in high school. That 90's nostalgia is in vogue does not help.

The tyranny of all your opinions and preferences imprisons you and feeds you just enough to keep you alive but not very coherent. They are decals on the train you ride that is full of unremarkable people all judging each other as inferior using slightly different versions of the same criteria.

All of your love affairs are a ruse. Any happiness you felt was because you were gas lighting yourself.

There was a correct path your life could have taken that would have lead to happiness, but you diverted from it long ago, and your attempts to compensate have been disastrous.

Time is escaping you like water escaping through cracks of aging, and with the water pours out personal secrets you wanted to keep. Everyone knows them now, but you think they are still secrets, and eventually you will drown in not enough understanding.

At your funeral, people will be having inaccurate thoughts about you. The rest of their thoughts will be about food and sexual conquest.

You will die regretting all the love you never got to express, and had you expressed it, it would only have caused discomfort shrouded in decorous graciousness.

The cliches found on posters and internet memes you abhor most are the ones that would have made you free to be happy.

Your limited language of pop culture references will ensure that all of your experiences are sterilized. No matter what you do or where you go, you will be insulated from transcendence. Fortunately, if you even begin to realize this and get depressed, you can always watch Buffy The Vampire Slayer reruns until it goes away.

There is at least one truth about yourself that you are engineered to never find out. You will dance around it, and maybe even approach it, but you will always be deflected and tossed back into unknowing and delusion. Like planets whirling around the sun, it will explode and engulf you before you can reach it. And this is your closest connection to the divine.