[b]Melissa Broder
There aren’t many ways to find comfort in this world. We must take it where we can get it, even in the darkest, most disgusting places. Nobody asks to be born. No one signs a form that says, You have my permission to make me exist. Babies are born, because parents feel that they themselves are not enough. So, parents, never condemn us for trying to fill our existential holes, when we are but the fruit of your own vain attempts to fill yours. It’s your fault we’re here to deal with the void in the first place.[/b]
Let’s file this one under, “whine, whine, whine”.
I fear others will discover that I am not only imperfect; I’m not even okay. I fear that I truly am not okay. But most people who meet me never know that I am struggling. On the outside I am smiling. I am juggling all the balls of okayness: physical, emotional, mental, spiritual, existential. Underneath, I am suffocating.
On the other hand, maybe she’s not just a loser.
It seems weird to me that here we are, alive, not knowing why we are alive, and just going about our business, sort of ignoring that fact. How are we all not looking at each other all the time just like, Yo, what the fuck?
I know, let’s invent the gods.
Here’s why I’m afraid of life after death: What if there is no nicotine gum?
He wondered: Can you smoke in Heaven?
There would never be enough milk. One titty is too many and a thousand are never enough. What I really sought was a cosmic titty. I sought a titty so omniscient it could sate all my holes.
But what if it’s not nonsense?
Have you ever noticed that your job performance or productivity suffers because of the time spent online?
On the other hand, isn’t that what work is for?