The mere fact that we exist means in one form or another; something else does not. The moment you were conceived and the little egg in your momma’s belly started to grow, millions of other possibilities ceased to be and millions of others started. All those sperm, vying to be King Fertilizer, and yet the ones that don’t make it die off and cease to be. So by our very creation we’ve murdered millions of possibilities.
When we are born we immediately become consumers. (Not that we weren’t consumers in the womb, but that was more mom anyway) Our immediate lust for milk, food or blankets results in the death of countless animals and plant life. Who knows how many young Indian or Chinese people were accidentally chopped up into little chunks when they fell into the weaving machine in their third rate factory that makes the blankets we were swaddled in at the hospital.
As we start to grow we learn the fine art of killing things with our own hands. The first dead bug, the first magnifying glass on the ant hill, the first cat in a sack in the river (C’mon, not really, just let go of your indignation for a second. Besides, you’re the murderer here). Soon we have a mastery over our domain and we consider ourselves the center of the universe and all that do not bow to our demands will be smote.
Of course then we go to school or maybe church and learn that we’re not the inventor of the cheese sandwich and that there’s someone who demands we bend to their will. We are of course already skilled at vending death with our every step so the end of our imaginary dominance of the world passes away with little notice. We also hardly notice the kids that maybe didn’t make it into school because we got in before they did and due to classroom size restrictions they will not be able to attend, thus putting their lives on a collision course to oblivion. Not that you meant to do it, but you might as well have pulled the trigger yourself.
That person you saw recently who fed you the classic “all things happen for a reason” line (and you know you saw them recently, everybody knows that douchebag.) I’m so tired of that guy. Well, they’re wrong, everything happens because you like to murder things. Hopefully not intentionally, but you do enjoy it. Be it the strangulation of someone else’s dreams or the burial of someone’s ideals, it was the victim of a brutal crime. Every moment is a crime scene of murdered potential or vision.
We can’t help ourselves, as I said we start this murderous rampage the moment daddy didn’t put the rubber on. And don’t get me started on all his murdering. My goodness, with all the masturbation over the course of his lifetime, he’s worse than Hitler, Stalin and Kenny G put together. It’s our nature to either stop and smell the roses or trample them under our Doc Martens.
I think the Highlander was right, there can be only one. Now get back to murdering things.
(Is hang-over writing the best writing? No. I murdered this)