The aggregate for whom I am penny pimping AND NEED RESIDENTIAL AREA SUBSCRIBERS TO INCREASE MY COMMISSION (the residents of my building probably fall within Examiner's target range outside of sports actually but I have to weigh how much I'm willing to compromise my principles for ignorant Jesus spouting hypocrites) ran a story on Marius the giraffe-- or more correctly, the editorial team sent the aggregates who slave for them a link to search engine feeds. I briefly considered running with the head winds-- but my passions lean toward killing humans who kill cats and predators, not herd animals--it may also surprise you to learn I've never yet threatened an animal abuser, though it is tempting.
I take issue with Marc Bekoff, however. Was it cruel to kill a healthy two year old male who properly belonged on the African savanna? Yes. Ever see a lion take a wild giraffe down? That is cruel as well, whether or not the bolt gun is more humane than asphyxiation through curved fangs. I doubt either is pleasant in the shift from life to carcass, just as my death at the hands of
a. an abusive paraprofessional
b. phlegm in my pulmonary tissue
c. other, primarily related to pressure sores and anxiety in developmental aging
will not be pleasant. Evolution is brutal; humans have done a great deal to both mitigate and prove this unfortunate fact, and the optimist belief that we can divorce existence from the brutality ranging from the cellular levels of consumption through orcas hunting blue whales, is too much hubris, even if transhumanism is all but ushered in upon us. I'll be happy to take the bolt gun off of the Danish. When I am ready perhaps an inner city banger will do the honor. It appeals to me more than sleep potions or bullets. I was tremendously angry at Wallace for his suicide, which was odd for a couple of reasons. Before he hung himself, I only read of his novel in passing and had no idea who Wallace was; investigation pissed me off, because he was, and had, everything I had hoped for myself. Humanist marriage, talent, students, fans, for Christ's sake, as well as the intuitive ability to use the immersion of disability in his work to offer a searing and penetrating perspective, and the genius greaseball fucking hangs himself because he is in pain. I'm evidently not finished being really mad at a complete stranger whose work is nearly a virtuoso display of anguish. It should have been me instead, this is what my heart cries. I am still here, in this fucking provincial n---* shanty backwater where I was born in the fucking best of it public fucking housing system because its other units are pestering boils of post traumatic stress.
I am still here, and I should have never come back.
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