Tag Archives: suffering

Ponerology

It’s been over a month since I’ve posted!  Guess what I’ve been doing lately?  Studying evil!  See, it’s kind of hard to write goofy blog posts when I’m subjecting myself to mass doses of human fuckedupedness.  It’s more than a bit challenging to put my findings into cogent sentences, but fortunately some have done a pretty good job before me.  Some polish guy with a name I can’t type because it has a special character in it wrote about broken societies being taken over by psychopaths who institute totalitarian governments in his book Political Ponerology.  It’s pretty much Orwell minus the plot and it will traumatize you for life.  Speaking of psychopaths, Robert Hare has done some amazing work on them.  If reading the work of these two dudes does not traumatize you enough, here are some of the youtube videos I’ve been horrifying myself with lately:

Canadian serial killer rapes and butchers prostitutes on his pig farm in Canada for YEARS while Vancouver police kind of suck at policing.

• 11-year old girl strangles toddler boys to death in shitty English slums in 1968 and the authorities sit on their asses for an alarmingly long time.

Japanese dude murders and eats pretty exchange student in Paris with no ill consequences and goes home to become a celebrity in his native land (best-selling author, porn star, lecturer, TV personality etc).

Are you advocating for the destruction of the human species yet?  What’s so fucked up is not only these freaky outliers but the responses they get from the authorities and society at large.  It looks like evil is not so much a discrete feature in the human personality as what emerges when other features are missing.  The most obvious missing feature is empathy.  But, as anyone who is acquainted with a bunch of engineers knows, being socially retarded is not an immediate gateway to murder.  A researcher named Cleckley called what I’m about to talk about “semantic aphasia.”

Once upon a time, because of the vagaries of bodily chemistry, I was crazy in love with an asshole.  Yep, it happens to many of us.  One thing he used to do that destroyed my universe of a regular basis is totally contradict himself without apparent awareness.  He’s state some philosophical belief of his, and a week later say something that was in complete opposition.  At first, I questioned him about these inconsistencies to try to figure out what was happening in his (deficient) brain, but the resulting conversations always made me want to eat a gun.  So I learned to shut up and stomach a whole bunch of bullshit.  I made constant excuses for that weird emptiness inside him.  And thus a cock-addicted co-dependent was born.

What was especially weird about his frequent lies is that it seemed, most of the time, he was not actually aware he was bullshitting.  It seriously flummoxed the shit out of me and made me want to stab myself in the soul.  This is apparently a common feature of psychopaths.  It’s called semantic aphasia and it’s how come they can say without blinking, “oh I ripped a dude’s eyeball out of his face last week and then fucked his brain through his empty eyeball hole until he died but I have never committed a violent crime.”  Psychopaths can say shit like that because they literally don’t know what words mean.  They can give you the dictionary definition of a word but they are unable to feel its emotional content.  So, if you say to a psychopath, “nazis raping baby pandas,” his brain will respond the same as if you said, “tapioca pudding.”  (Unless he thinks tapioca pudding is icky, in which case his brain will have a stronger response to the pudding, I’m guessing.)    Because of this deficiency, this means that even the smartest psychopath will be unable to catch falsehoods when they come out of his mouth.  Ain’t that some shit?  Doesn’t that shed a whole lot of light on your ex-boyfriend?

I’m not necessarily saying that your shitty ex-boyfriend it out there butchering whores, but I’m saying he suffers from the same lack as the whore butcherer, on a smaller scale.  He is, in essence, a mini-psychopath.  The world is absolutely CRAMMED with these people.  People who cannot feel meaning.  Couple that with lack of empathy and it’s Jeffrey Dahmer time.

Soapbox moment: Empathy and meaning are at the root of morality, which is why stories are good for us because they build both.  So tell your little ones a shitload of stories, and maybe in a generation or two we can dispense with Wall Street.

Okay, now I need to go find some chocolate and a purring cat.

Seriously, kitty cuddles STAT, please.

SweetDeath®

YOU GUYS.

So, I was out having dinner with the husband.  I noticed a new color among the sweeteners on offer.  Amongst the usual pink, blue, and yellow, there was green.  I pulled out the green to get a better look at it.  It was called SweetLeaf®.  It was made from some rainforest plant called Stevia and promised it was all-natural.  I thought this was an interesting product, since maybe it didn’t have the icky aftertaste of your usual artificial sweetener.  So, I tore the packet open and poured a tiny amount into the palm of my hand to taste.  It was perfectly white and ground very fine, more like something you would snort than eat.  I licked the powder off my palm.

I don’t remember exactly what followed.  Everything went blurry, the world was obliterated, and my husband sat across the table shaking with laughter at my pain.  SweetLeaf® was so disgusting that I am pretty sure this is what Hate tastes like.  If you put that taste in the water supply, a nationwide bloody civil war would break out within a day over nothing in particular.  Seriously.  It was so disgusting that it was sublime.  I pretty sure that, amidst the excruciating white pain that blinded my entire soul, I saw the face of God.

I will never be the same.  I will never untaste this product.  Life itself has been destroyed for me.  Now it’s just Nazis raping babies to death with the severed penises of slaughtered endangered panda bears.  To a Justin Bieber soundtrack.  I mean it, all is dead to me now.  I’m pretty sure I can never love again.

If Cthulhu ate a bowl full of anuses and then pooped them into your mouth, it would taste just like that.  With a hint of anise.  Anise anus, that’s what this stuff should be called.  It made me reconsider my stance towards the very idea of rainforest.  Raze the whole fucking thing, is what I say now.

After my husband stopped laughing at me, I actually talked him into having a little taste of the stuff.  He licked some off his hand, and shrugged.  “I dunno,” he said, “it just tastes really sweet.”

So, be advised: depending on what your palate is like, SweetLeaf® tastes either like (a) sweetener or (b) Nazi panda baby rape.  Roll the dice and let me know how it works out.

I WILL RAPE YOUR MOUTH. Maybe.

reflections from a death bed

One of my favorite fourth of July playthings has to be that bitty hockey-puck-looking firework which, when you put flame to it, twists and writhes into a long, convoluted black snake.  Then when you try to touch said snake, it crumbles into nothing, leaving only smooth, faintly greasy ash on your fingertips.

One of my friends must have set one of those off in my brain when he mentioned the Pandora myth in an e-mail.  My response was probably not what he expected:

Do you remember what was left cringing in the bottom of the box once all the world’s evils had come screeching and roaring out of it?  Hope, I believe it was.  Once upon a time, I used to think it was the last thing in that box because it was the most evil of all.  Every morning I’d wake up from a horrid dream life into a waking nightmare, and wish I had it in me to put myself to sleep for good.  All I would have had to do is grind up my morphine pills to break the time-release coating and eat them all at once.  But it was fucking hope that kept me from doing that, the ridiculous hope that one day it would get better.  Back then I was fifty pounds lighter than I am now (which, contrary to what they show you in beauty magazines, does not look good on my frame).  One day I may tell you the story if you want, or I can let the tidy surgeon cuts on my body tell you if you prefer.

Death is not so bad at all.  Death was actually a rather soothing presence.  When I would wake up in the morning soaked in the sweat of my narcotic nightmares, it would be sitting right there at the foot of my bed reading a magazine.  Waiting.  It would look up at me ever so calmly and ask, “Today?”
“No, not today.”
“Well, if you need me, you know where I am.”
“I know.  Maybe tomorrow.”
I grew to like Death so well that I actually still have a bunch of decade-old morphine in the recesses of my medicine cabinet.  I like having that exit there should I need it–should I need it in case the thing I am really afraid of chooses to come back.  That thing is extreme, sustained, physical suffering.  You can be as clever and as strong as you want, suffering will collapse you in ways that you cannot anticipate.

Well, I’m here now; I guess hope was right after all.  That one time.