Let’s talk about plastic—the woke’s second amendment.
The latest hyperawareness around saving the planet is sustainability. It’s the millionaire’s version of billionaires going to Mars. Every real attempt at creating positive change has one assole sitting by the sidelines, shaking his head. So, “hi.”
My take on saving the planet is going to sound idiotic, not well thought-out, and mostly instinctual—so, overall: reasonable.
We need to bring back plastic. Specifically, single-use plastic. More specifically, condoms. Sustainability has been pussyfooting around clothes, cars, and meat when it should really be talking about the most unsustainable thing on the planet: You. Because the highest in sustainability is your removal.
You’d think keeping the Earth going is something we’d all agree on. But our attempt at changing the planet is getting caught up in an awareness harakiri.
Your awareness is relentlessly looking to plumb new depths of conscience to make you feel special and make you take a dip in the societal vomit of guilt to wash off your sins. And sustainability, as we know it now, is just a perfect vomitorium. Deep enough to carry your own bag to the store; not deep enough to sign the adoption papers.
Time to say it.
We don’t need more kids.
People who usually say that hate kids. Not me. It’s the parents I hate. Kids are merely preservatives for their marriage. Worse, the kids become a final chance at improving their own life a notch. Worst, because society may think your dick doesn’t work. But there’s one special case of mental illness that beats them all: If you are one of those people who has kids because you need to preserve your lineage so something of you can continue to live on even after you are gone, you are fucking virus is what you are. And there’s no vaccination for stupidity.
Sustainability, by definition, is the ability to maintain a certain rate or level. The human population is the antithesis of that definition and instead, we are talking about the cocoa in our chocolate being sustainably sourced. Sustainability is capitalism’s boob job. A chew toy for your awareness.
Because you have developed an intensity of awareness about you that makes your days inhospitable. You tour the contours of immorality, hysteria, and desperation. You have stocked up on a self-righteousness-backed suffering you confuse for improvement. And you have tied up your delusions with depth.
All the slaughter documentaries turned you vegan—cool, but you won’t flinch as you leave half your Kale-Cabbage lasagna shagged with cashew cream uneaten because no one showed you a documentary about the woman pushing a pram, balloons tied to it, her child inside, the balloons—the child’s hypnotic amnesia from hunger, begging to be bought. One less balloon: a bawl to buy one day’s hope. And Your kid won’t eat without an iPad. Welcome to the Hunger games. Over to Greta Thunberg for the weather.
This is no argument for not having kids as a function of the planet’s stability. Well, it sure as fuck is, but that’s not the diaper mountain I even want to stick this flag on. You’ll find stats on the Internet to show how global population and climate change have no relationship (because the Internet runs on Horseshit), and as many graphs to show how humans, the more they got, the worse off the planet became (unless your name is Steven Pinker).
What’s not up for debate is that a Bat laid us to waste for two years and we couldn’t pull off six fucking feet of space to save one another. To the Earth, we are the roommate that won’t flush the toilet, ever. Except, now your kids are going to move into the same room and they are going to be disgusted. And you are going to tell them they will never understand you until they have kids of their own. This isn’t love. It is extortion with the earth as hostage
As misanthropic as this essay has turned out so far, this is an argument, fuck all said and done, for humanity. When our desires run dry, we throw procreation into the void. We can’t afford that no more. Because as ironic as this is, we are our children’s last hope. And in the Hunger Games,You don’t forget the face of the person who was your last hope. That’s our only way to live forever.
On my way to work, I saw a guy sitting on a gas cylinder, smoking. Before you call him a douchebag, here’s the metaphorical forewarning I am going for. The earth is the cylinder. You are the guy. And the cigarette—your child. Loved, rushed, stomped.
If I may bring this hopeful conspiracy theory to a Gatsbyesque end.
The hyperaware hashtag-horror-show that is the 21st century believed in undoing more than doing; in constantly undoing the orgastic past they screwed into existence. It eluded them then; it eludes them now, but that’s no matter–tomorrow they will try harder, they’ll keep fucking away, timing their ovulation with the earth’s miscarriage, and one dark morning following another they will keep multiplying, and congress into their cyclical existence—reality against futility, awareness against hope, man against man—borne ceaselessly into a future they could have had, but tragically, merely only wanted.