Abyssal philosophy

I haven’t read much Aldous Huxley. By which I (actually) mean I’ve only ever read Brave New World… a tome, truthfully, I never clicked with and chalk up my attempt thereof as halfhearted at best. It has long since been added to my list of novelistic bugbears, since I get the sense that I’m supposed to like it… but just don’t. (I’ve even tried the version with pictures and speech bubbles)

My dystopian writer of choice is clearly Orwell I mumble offering that up as some sort of foil… while at the same time sticking a finger in the dyke holding back all those big, weird feelings that one gets from not necessarily appreciating (or understanding) the paragons of literature. (and admitting publicly to it)

Having said all that, I’ve recently discovered the Fifth Philosophers song by the a fore mentioned wordsmith.

And among that billion minus one
Might have chanced to be
Shakespeare, another Newton, a new Donne—
But the One was Me.  

Shame to have ousted your betters thus,
Taking ark while the others remained outside!
Better for all of us, froward Homunculus,
If you’d quietly died!

I think about this a lot. Probably more than is considered healthy. How many of my betters did I best I wonder vaguely, while I try and peal my banana (not even particularly expertly it must be said). Who else was in the tank, swimming for their lives? And how much better would they have been at all this life stuff?

I imagine conception like the scene (and now core meme material) from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia where Danny DeVito comes in with the ‘assist’.

I mean if you are going to envision a Homunculus, Danny DeVito might be perfect I decide.

Think about this long enough and you’ll find yourself staring off into the abyss. How many of your iterations were left for dead during your mad dash? Eh… not Danny DeVito hitting you in the head with a plank I mean. Although that might also qualify as relatively abysmal. (in terms of where your day is going from there)

Clearly I have a lot of time on my hands to mull these sorts of things over. But it is kinda cruel (and I suppose beautiful) that I am me. And you are you. The genocide all up in your mom means you get to complain about how hard life is for the next… well, statistical mean of years allotted to you. Instead of proving you were the one that deserved that shot at life.

Although, I am pretty good about complaining about stuff I decide. And half decent with philosophy.

Like why, can I happily make a three egg omelette, but eating three hard-boiled eggs feels excessive? Also naval lint. Why is it so fascinating?

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