#26 January 26.

#26 January 26.

I find it severely depressing that I can’t always enjoy life
even though it _is_ completely meaningless. Humankind is merely
a bunch of frenetic bits of protoplasm, busily killing other
bits of protoplasm so they can pass their own genes on and make
still more bits of protoplasm. We’re an eddy in a random backcurrent
of the stream of evolution. There’s no reason for humankind
to exist, and certainly no reason for any particular bit
to exist or not.

Once you beleive that, it’s realy hard to get very excited
about humankind. Maybe after we kill ourselves off, the next
critter to develop too much intelligence for it’s own good
will be a species of ant, or tiger, or cockroaches. If we
don’t nuke ’em all before our own species expires.

Most days I can forget that there’s no purpose to life and
enjoy whatever I’m doing, riding my motorcycle at excessive
speed, playing obnoxious music at excessive volume, or going to
downtown Palo Alto with my punk girlfriend (hi!) and watch the
yuppies watching us. But every so often that big black cloud
sort of sneaks up on me and pins me down. That’s when I crawl
over to alt.angst to whimper for a while, and flame the shit out
of whining college boys who beleive ”that cherished myth- that
falling in love magically solves every problem you’re ever had.”
(Jello Biafra, ”Mate, Spawn and Die” an excellent albeit temporary
cure for depression.)

-Eric Murray

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