I am Human. Period.
That’s all this used to say. At one time it linked to a piece I wrote that was just a randomly jumbled chronology of events that changed me or that I’m still bitter about. Lots of pouty bullshit about digging holes and hitting rock bottom and triumph and loss and Tubeway Army shirts.
Honestly, that virtuous, joyful, disgustingly optimistic side of me that never seems to come out when it would be useful would tell you that I’m making a statement. It would say that I’m telling you that I believe that all that should matter about me to you is that I’m human—love me like I love you, and let’s just be random. But keep Doctor Zhivago away from me.
It doesn’t matter where I’ve come from, what nationality I am, who my parents were, that I pick Bulbasaur every time I decide I think I might might finally maybe perhaps unlikely improbably nope not-even-getting-out-of-the-grass play Pokemon Red again… We are all human, and that should be enough to reach out and not feel afraid to say: You good, man? Can I help? How are you? Do you like birds? What’s your top score on Pole Position?
We’re all in this together. We are all gathering data, processing it, spitting out our interpretations of what it feels like to a tiny speck of fuck all in the middle of this massive slo-mo explosion that just happened out of thin air.
What can I do to contribute?