Or at least it is for me. Lately.
This morning was super rough. Woke up in a pool of sweat (presumably my own) and absolutely incoherent. For a few very long seconds, I knew nothing and thought nothing and could not have even told you my name.
Assuming I could still speak.
But then my consciousness booted up and I remembered what time of day it was and from there what day it was and from there the rest of the entity designated by the words “Michael John Bertrand” came back online.
But I still felt terrible. Like I have written here many times before, this hyper intense REM state sleep really beats the crap out of me. I wake up dizzy and incoherent and dehydrated and utterly disoriented and above all with my every brain circuit utterly frazzled and fried like I’m a mystic who just had a religious vision.
Which would be ironic, given my lifelong lack of any religion and my stubborn rational materialist point of view.
I still refuse to believe things just because if they were true it would make me feel better.
I recognize that this is quite probably a very stupid way to go through life. I have come to the conclusion that the human mind requires some degree of “faith” in something akin to “magic” in order to function.
You need to have something to fill in the gaps between what we need emotionally speaking and what the world is currently providing us.
Those gaps can get mighty wide sometimes. Trust me on that. And there I am, stuck on one side of the gap, unable to cross because I won’t accept things that don’t make sense to me.
Whereas normal people just fly across without even knowing it.
And that includes most current atheists too, I think. It doesn’t matter if you leave religious faith behind consciously for not making sense (how could it?), because the true payload of that faculty of self-balancing and a deep and unspoken sense that there is someone out there looking out for you has been delivered and installed.
And few people are so thoroughly atheistic as to be able to resist the urge to, for instance, when faced with some profound tragedy, say, “That kind of thing shouldn’t happen!”, or when good fortune comes our way to want someone to thank.
Not even I, and I am approximately as atheistic as it is possible to be. I have never had any religious indoctrination at all. I was raised by atheists in an atheist household.
And I am definitely not saying that it’s impossible to be religious and depressed at the same time, but I must point out that all four children of that household have mental health issues somewhere along the anxious/depressed spectrum.
I’m not saying a belief in God would have fixed that, but… maybe?
At the very least I might not have grown up feeling so goddamned alone and abandoned. It would have been nice to feel like someone out there was looking out for me, even if it was a made-up all-powerful imaginary friend.
I certainly didn’t have anyone real protecting me. Nobody protected me from jack shit. Like a lot of Gen X kids, I was left to fend for myself.
We’re a feral generation because of the self-absorbed Boomers who raised us. Their winning childrearing technique was to ignore their children completely while just assuming that we must be okay.
After all, if there was something wrong, we’d say something, right?
Note : Alienate and punish children for not being okay. Act like they just teleported in from Mars and took hostages should they ever say anything that suggests you should invest literally any more time or energy or love in them. Make it their responsibility to keep your selfish Boomer ass loving their children.
I mean, you can’t possibly expect us to actually raise you. That’s absurd.
We pay the bills and feed and clothe and shelter you. You know, the absolutely bare minimum amount of parenting you can legally get away with.
And now you want MORE?
How utterly selfish of you.
More after the break.
This is from a comic strip I keep seeing in my Instagram and Blue Sky feeds, and it’s not hard to see why.
The art could be better but the writing is as delightful as the little gator kid.
The world needs warm fuzzy vibes like this more than ever.
So what you’re saying…
I’d never seen this part at the beginning before. It comes across as her trying to counter the terrible impression she’s about to make ahead of time.
Too bad the world didn’t see it, for the most part.
Anyhow…. so what you’re saying, Madonna, is that you’re auctioning your pussy.
Wait, no, that’s too harsh. That would imply that a woman is ever, under any circumstances, obligated to have sex with a man.
You’re auctioning a chance at your pussy.
That’s what all this bullshit about wanting only rich dudes dating you boils down to. You’re so convinced of the market value of a ticket in your pussy raffle that you’re sure you can hold out for the highest bidder.
Not that I’m saying you’re a prostitute.
Prostitutes are more honest. You pay, you lay, every single time.
When ladies like you go off with whatever gent can “treat you like a princess” the best, that’s what you are saying. You’re saying that you are for sale.
Personality, intelligence, charm, good looks, sensitivity. sense of humour, and all the rest of that romantic bullshit doesn’t mean a thing to you.
He could be a demented toothless ogre with the IQ of a fencepost and open, weeping sores all over his body and as long as he bought you the most expensive gifts and took you to the fanciest places and thus flattered your ego, you’d fuck him silly.
Congratulations, you’re the dehumanized slab of fuckable meat worth the most money.
Wouldn’t Mom and Dad be proud.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.