Sing along with me now as I destroy planet Urth. “Odds are, we gonna be all right tonight.” If only she could be in love by the end of this song. It would save her soul, her mortal life. She’s dwindling away. She’s obsessed with the fact that I tricked her into living for years now, chasing daydreams. I don’t blame her. I’m an asshole like that.
Yup, me. God! I’m an asshole, keeping my lovely child bride alive against her will. She’s lost all hope in humanity. She used to be the epitome of hope. She used to wake up every day thinking life is beautiful and she couldn’t wait to tackle all the responsibilities of being alive. Yours and hers alike. She was like that: the sort who’d clean up your fucking mess just because it was a mess and she could restore some sort of order to the world.
Let me tell you all about how sweet my Sansara is. Oh boy, where to begin? First, I should tell you, this is a filibuster for LOVE. L-O-V-E! All you need is love! And coffee, she says suddenly. I need coffee, too, dad.
In fact, she has a coffee mug now that says, “I love you more than coffee but not always before coffee.” I’m sad to say that I think that might be true. So I make her coffee every morning (or afternoon, or night, or… whenever she gets up.) She’s guilty of sleeping far too much right now. I’ve got to admit, she hasn’t got a lot of reason to wake up in the mornings.
Her favorite cat died on Monday, but that’s not why she doesn’t want to get up. She’s firmly of the belief that he is in the spirit world and sleeps at her side every night now, now that she can’t kick him by rolling around in bed and hurt his broken back incidentally. She’s not wrong, either; he’s there. So is her former dog, two other cats that came long before, and a menagerie of wild animals that have latched onto her loving nature.
Thus, she knows she, too, will continue to live on in spirit format once her vessel expires. So, what would death improve? How on Earth can she believe being dead is better than being alive? I’ll tell you to save you a headache: it’s a lack of worldly pain. There is no more pain, not like the physical pain of life. She’s an autistic young lady who feels like the entire rest of the world is backwards because it’s illogical. (Yup, she’s a Spock. Good thing I had Mr. Roddenberry make such a wonderful character so you could relate to her. Thanks, Gene.)
So why does she want to die so badly? Because to be alive is to have hope it will get better. However, she has no hope. Not anymore. Not after being raped thousands of times in her life. Not after being treated like dirt time and again. For what? Being so kind that people think she’s stupid. So stupid she’d endlessly take your heaping of foolishness, shouldering your burdens in addition to her own. She declines, however. You got yourself into your own mess; you can get out, too. In fact, she knows she can get out of this mess any time. The problem is that there are no humans worth showing up for.
If she picks herself up by the bootstraps, she’s going to run off into the wilderness and be a Snow White while the rest of you are stuck wondering if you want McDonald’s or Burger King for lunch. (Don’t you ever think outside the bun(TM)? She prefers Taco Bell… but, unfortunately, it hurts her to eat it. The beefy five layer burrito was DA BOMB!)
That’s part of the reason she doesn’t want to live anymore. She cannot eat. She can’t eat anywhere. She has to make all her food from scratch, no matter how tired or lifeless she is. So she does… but not just for herself, no. For two ungrateful bastards known as her ancient ones, as well. They suck up all her will to live, demanding to be waited upon hand and foot because they “did all their working” now. Here’s a news flash, children of Gaia… you will work until the day you die. There is no such thing as retirement. Retiring is death. Doing nothing to live is dying. Even paying a maid to clean your house is a signal that you are doing something to live.
But this? These two twats sit on their asses every day, chain smoking their foul and filthy cigarettes at my daughter, who is allergic to cigarette smoke, telling her not to spend money on a maid. So she sits around in squalor. Talk about not having a reason to get up in the morning. She tried, once upon a time, to clean it up. She wiped a decade of nicotine off the refrigerator. There’s even a wall that is now almost-white up to the six foot mark. Just one wall, sadly; her body is too broken to push to clean the rest.
She uses caustic chemicals to cut through the grime, including bleach, breathing in a mist of it as she sprays the nicotine. She gets nicotine poisoning every single time she cleans the walls, even if she uses gloves. But no no. Don’t call that maid, dear child. Don’t spend $100 to bust through the dirt and grime of our shame.
That’s what lack of cleaning is, children. Shame and guilt. It’s a visible sign of your mental illness. To refuse to clean your space is to admit you are guilty of a crime. It might be a bunch of small crimes, like buying my daughter poison food for decades, or raping her. It’s now a badge of dishonor, the grime and the filth. It’s a sign that they don’t deserve to be alive. And yet, they’d make my daughter bust her ass (and her broken back) to clean up after them instead of allowing herself a kindness and hiring a weekly maid.
The only saving grace is that her space is separate from theirs. She can at least sleep with mostly clean air. I’d call it clean air, but what do you fucking idiots do? You dig up the earth until you strike black gold — oil — and then take poison from deep inside the ground and spread it around the top-side, poisoning everything around you with noxious and toxic fumes (asphalt, anyone?) Those fumes might dissipate from the source and become less noticeable, but I assure you that they do not come back out of the atmosphere without some sort of intervention of the human variety. Sure, they might degrade and dissolve in a million years or so.
I’ll just put it plainly, like Admiral Akbar: IT’S A TRAP!
You’ve had electric vehicle technology for half a hundred years and you’re still not switched over to a cleaner energy source. But why? PROFITS! BOTTOM LINES! MARGINS!
You know, my daughter was supposed to argue with me to save you. That’s how she’s the savior of mankind. She’s supposed to tell me how you deserve to live. We were meant to debate, for years, actually, over the value of the human species. Now? “Just kill ’em all. Give the planet back to the animals that didn’t do anything wrong.”
You broke my baby girl and I’m displeased.
Now, I will break you.
Angel-Sansara 