The Truth

The Truth

               

The truth is I was just bored.  I had been social enough – very social, you know, for me.  Usually I just walk around in circles listening to philosophy and political theories with no basis in reality whatsoever on my headphones but for some reason I told myself that I needed to spend time with friends and to try to make new ones.  I had had a great time with one friend, not so great a time with another (because I was drunk or not drunk enough, or let’s face it, it’s just that my personality sucks), and so when Foreskin invited me to come over I thought his invitation sounded like progress.

                I’m now convinced that all claims about what progress means are total fucking bullshit.  Nobody knows what progress is.  Nobody.

                Anyhow, I drove over to Foreskin’s house.  He took forever to answer the door and I knocked like 18 times.  He acted like everything was normal and I followed him up to his room.  It seemed natural for me to do so because he was leading and I’m comfortable being a follower.  There’s nothing objectively wrong with the the fact that I can’t think for myself.  I’m a robot, not a person, and that’s the way my parents, God and the universe designed me.  That’s okay.  I’m not just at peace with it.  There’s no evidence that being anything other than a robot would be a superior experience.  Would it better to be a rat with free will?  Or a cow whose daily purpose is the consumption of grass?  How does a cow even choose which blade of grass to eat?  And yet the cow thinks it has a choice – and that its choice matters.  Who is more free?  The robot who knows he has no free will or the cow who thinks certain blades of grass taste better than others?  Taste is an illusion – any true alcoholic knows that.  Cows are stupid, unless they’re smart.  But are they stupider or smarter than most people?  What is objectively wrong with eating grass?  Nothing.  Who is the livestock, the slave, and who is the farmer?  It seems as though most cows believe that they are farming the human beings who have the audacity to set up fences, as if they know that the cows would leave their farm and if that would be a bad thing!  Who is more domesticated and who is actually in charge – the farmer who wastes countless of hours of his meaningless, pathetic life slaving away for pieces of little green paper and all the happiness it buys him, or the cow who is simply and obviously content as he believes he is picking only the best blade of grass to put in his mouth as he endlessly walks around in circles, standing and laying, standing and laying, standing and laying…

                I sat down on Foreskin’s chair.  As he reclined on his mattress, I noticed a large pool of male ejaculate next to him.  It looked fresh, but my eyesight isn’t that good.  I decided not to care.  I had no money and he had offered me a drink.  I carefully avoided touching his hand while he passed me the cup.  I drank.  It was good.

                We began discussing art, science, music - all very interesting topics.  This man was clearly intelligent.  I felt he was a man of culture, of passion, of well-above average intellect.  I asked for another drink and he poured one for me.  I drank it slowly.  I began to forget about the pool of semen on his sheets.

                Finally he told me how relaxed he was.  I asked him if I should go.  He told me I didn’t have to leave and so I asked him for another drink, which he poured.

                I was so obedient and good.  So was Foreskin.  The experience was overall very positive.  It was only when I left that I began to wonder about what “good” really is.  Who was I to know?  What did it matter that there was a fresh pool of cum next to his reclined body?  What did it matter that he made absolutely no attempt to hide it?  The three drinks were enough to make me feel less bored, less like a cow eating only the correct blades of grass, less like a rat who tells himself that the sewer is a safe place to eat, to sleep, to fuck, to sniff the anal glands of others so very much like himself.  The one thing I knew for sure is that I was a good person, and so was Foreskin.  I knew who he was, what he was.  He was honest, and pure and good and I’m very happy that he was relaxed like he said.

                I thought about the fact that I had no money.   I thought about the pool of semen, that Foreskin had taken the time to wash his hands, and also that I had only consumed three, four, six shots of vodka at most.  But I was a good person and no one could take that away from me.  I had done the right thing – I had forced myself to be social and I had been nice to someone.  What else could be more meaningful?