Your weekly existential rant

Here goes.

I sometimes wonder about the consequences that American stylings might have on the fragile minds of our youth, wherein fairytale stories abound about attracting that oh so hot girl who when she struts down the sidewalk does so so magically that time itself seems to go into reverse warp speed, where perfectly stiff but not too stiff breezes waft from the city’s sewerly undergird and cause her thin dress to seemingly frolick with the joy of having just discovered that you are wearing Brand Name Corduroys. These fantasies are or probably would be accurate if there were a God, but instead our reality seems closer to that of a cruel laboratory experiment put on by a godless party of physical forces that cause a certain number of rather unfortunate unfortunatalities, only one of which is that female humans seem to take into account much more than corduroy variety when assessing the fuckability of a sidewalk male.

But, yo, the human default is to exit the womb blissfully immune to the conscious awareness of these intentionless forces and instead has an amazingly stupid proclivity to observe intention and justification in everything from the family pet’s signaling of its appreciation of the family’s resource support via the licking of grime off of one’s face to the saint-like representations on one’s tortilla, almost none of which can reasonably be explained by anything other than a Universal Intention which, if its divine intention is knowable, is something like to show me how much it admires me and wants me to stay safe and cheerful up until the point that my life is taken by something gentle like heart break or liver sadness, which is all just to say that American stylings might well be taken to such a stupidly simplified extreme that they could be perversely causing godlessness in our youth in their attempt to capitalize on our godful default by causing us to doubt the psychologically-protective mechanisms that we exit the womb with.

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You’ll notice that I did that in three sentences. 110 words per sentence! Look at how smart and funny I am! That was really the only point of this—just to try, hopelessly, to get my DFW on. Sorry. (Sorry?)

(This was actually really fun to write, so no, not sorry.)