We all want to be victims

This human inability to register that other people can suffer has driven us to define “justice” as the perfect excuse to extinguish the person that looks-at-me-the-wrong-way. From the first baby utterances of the “he did it!” to the “but I was only following orders”, humans have found ways to justify their horrors, massacres and genocides. All under the egotistical vision of “but my intentions were good…” or even worse, “but I am the good guy! I was only defending myself”

The worst part is that people are not essentially evil, it is just that they have their heads so high up in their own asses that they are unable to realize that their stupid good intentions has turned them into ghastly monsters.

Here is a nice historical collection of self proclaimed victims:

Migraines

Migraines are caused by minuscule zombies who rip and devour pieces of the brain they inhabit. Feverish minds, troubled by headaches and hallucinations are able to draw them into horror stories which flock our eyes in the cinema.

Some activities which the host performs wakes the voracious zombies and as the host tries to survive the unsuspected attack on the head, and believes the vomiting, the repulsion to noise and smells, the semi paralysis and shaking, the fear of light, are all caused by something as trivial and normal as blood rushing to the brain or a huge hangover. So then the host growls grr argh, takes enormous quantities of pills, and tries to sleep.

And the zombies munch away...

Mirror mirror

It does not matter how many fashionable clothes, board meetings, different jobs or excessive money humans have or want, they are still animals. Most of the time, humans try to identify their humanness with non-animal elements. That is, if an animal can do it, the human will negate that and construct s/his identity with the anti-animal notions.

So, if an animal defecates in public, the human will do it hidden in a restroom. If an animal eats another while the delicatessen is still alive; the human will kill, dismember and bake. It does not matter if the second option is more complicated, absurd and requires technicians, engineers, and hours of training in order to achieve it. Any variation turns humans into nasty beasts.

And those cuasi-perfect animals that behave in a non-animalistic way are almost humans: emotional dogs, memorious elephants who suffer painfully when they encounter elephant bones, or parrots that speak.

But when one of these animals behaves as s/his earthbound irremediable nature indicates, humans are astounded. Because they see a mirror of the beast that they are. After so many words... be flabbergasted:

Tuesday again!

From beneath us, the earth opens up to give forth the only monster capable to put up with today´s shit. He survives on dissertations and academic papers, in discussions of the absolute and let me tell you something...
The savior of lost students,

Count Fartula!

Of the time it was so cold the extremities froze and fell

The other day, as we were waiting for the very late bus and we endured the marvelous temperature of -38C (which at this level is basically the same in Farenheit), a young man next to me, as he was taking his boarding pass out of his jacket pocket, had the bad fortune to lose a finger.


It is well known by everyone that if you take the severed part and immediately position it to its missing place on the body, the edges will weld without further predicament.


The Quixote even mentions this maxim, “and so when I make it and give it to thee thou hast nothing to do when in some battle thou seest they have cut me in half through the middle of the body- as is wont to happen frequently,- but neatly and with great nicety, ere the blood congeal, to place that portion of the body which shall have fallen to the ground upon the other half which remains in the saddle, taking care to fit it on evenly and exactly.”


However, this young man had the calamity, due perhaps to fear and urgency, that he situated his finger with the fingernail looking down and this has welded so well that from that moment on he became dyslexic.

Lord, help my poor soul

I can not imagine that 200 years ago, when he was born, his mother could have suspected that 40 years later the comatose body of her babe would be lying life-less on a ditch in front of a tavern. That mangy dogs and scruffy rats would jump over his inert body, but his repulsive smell would impede them make the traditional sniffing performed by such critters. That her precious son´s life, in practical terms, had been pathetic and miserable. And she never knew, for she departed this life when he was 2. A somber existence, it seems to be, an unfortunate marriage to a 13-year old cousin (who died at 15), zero monetary gains, no properties, gambling debts, addicted to various drugs, a complete and total loser… lying in a puddle besides the sidewalk, being soaked in borrowed clothes. His last four days would be spent in a hospital, amidst delirium and hallucinations, refusing even to drink water. And the causes of his death were inconclusive, either because of his abuse of alcohol, or rabies (he was probably bitten by a bat during his long hours of insomnia, or by any of his numerous dogs and cats he kept in his house), or syphilis, or suicide, or murder, or it simply does not matter. Alcoholic, gambler, unwell, pedophile, incestuous, good for nothing, disinherited, just like that, Edgar Allan Poe died.



Perhaps, the parameters we use to measure success are skewed.