*Where does your father do his Barnacles?* Unfucked Edition Part 1.

It takes two words to define life: Organized Metabolism. We are structured; We eat, then shit. Our digestive tracts are our little arrows that point us forward to the next meal, the next source of time on this Earth, the next source of energy to move forward, to create or just to be. Our digestive tract drags our bodies through time by using food as the rope, the tracks, the grappling hook. Our bodies are a location in time we’ve been dragged to and adaptations are the specialized rope pullers our new environments beat into us because we needed to climb new ropes and end up in new bodies and new places with new things so we could throw it all down the shoot that turns environment into ATP and poop.

Give a digestive tract enough time and rope and it can beat itself into wielding some clever genitalia and use that to create even more digestive tracts, little baby digestive tracts, little time-worms. All thoughts, memories and traits of personality, which, mistakenly are accepted as what defines us as individuals, are just appendages developed by a sophisticated yet simple feeding tube to more efficiently and abundantly harvest resources from its environment.

IQ is an arm that pulls and crawls filling its fingernails with dirt. Conscientiousness is a leg doing squat after squat day after day, growing, succeeding, sending its tube to a place other tubes can’t always reach. Agreeableness can be a fist like an anchor pulling you to the bottom of an abyss. Openness is a pair of eyes that can navigate you to other worlds. Extraversion is a shoulder to be cried on, a hand to shake, high five or pat on the back with; It’s a way to get a meal from inside a man’s heart.

Even when you’re looking one right in the face and you realize that the poor bastard experiences it all just like you do, solving little problems here and there, trying to make its situation easier, more rewarding, better, eventually you see its social position and career as something like a guaranteed place holder in the feeding line. Imagine social digestive tracts: feeding tubes with so-called egos, faces and familiar voices inside them that can only they can hear. That’s what there is to see in ants, dogs, plants and it’s what there is to see in the human.

Eaters, spermers, and incubators; The dorm-aged people around me all look alike under the same objective light. All shitters.

“I’ll scrape by,” I say into a payphone to my brother who was listening more than speaking. “I’ll be literally scraping by, scraping chicken entrails on a factory floor, scraping garbage at a construction site and eventually scraping snow off the sidewalk. All the jobs at this temp agency are about scraping up some sort of shit.”

In the kitchen behind the payphones a plush little, white woman with her glowing red hair in a white towel was audibly chewing a chocolate ball cereal out of a white bowl on a white table in white sandals like she’s part of a lab experiment for General Mills. She’d pop brown sugar balls into her charm of a mouth and thumb through her phone with her palm over her jaw as she chewed in a circular motion like a toy washing machine or the box they spin blood with to separate plasma from red blood cells. “Whatever I have to do to never do plasma again”

Other Posts:
The Best Fuck You Part 1Part 2Part 3Part 4
Invest in Rain Part1Part 2Part 3
Van-life series Part 1

-Shameful E-begging i.e. Support the arts and shit! Please God help me!-

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