I know, it isn't an easy conclusion. Or maybe too simple? But it is the truth, with a capitalized, lower-case "t" that strives to be blend into the splash of coffee drool I planted down next to it. Life, it's what we've got, like Pork, and the other white meat. You know? We have to take care of ourselves. It makes sense that we care about living, and that we get all up in arms when there are threats, even though we're kind of bad at evaluating their intensity.
In other words, if this is it, and there's no great cosmic gig in the sky, then how we live matters. Not because we'll be judged on it one day. But because it matters, literally. We fuck up now, and that's it. There are no birthday cakes in heaven. There are no great grandfathers to proclaim value, inherent and intrinsic and intractable. There is only the legs under our butts, and the feet under there, and yes, we can survive and even thrive after some hard accidents, no doubt. Let's just not proclaim that there's some place to go where we either get paid off for the next 1000 years or we become coal for someone else's simmery oil glazed honey dew vegatable shish.
And speaking of food, whole foods carries some pure shit, and expensive too, and they've successfully not only fetishized but almost birthed an industry that caters the organic, inflexibly non-polluted or messed with, i.e. non-dirty, food, that all those non-religious highly secular monied liberals love to love like someone else we know intimately from a big book of fables. Except the consumption of pure food is beyond religion, because it isn't told in religious terms. Or maybe that puts it squre in the middle, I don't know. Either way, there's something serious going on over there, and tasty too. And primal, in its own little controlled way. Just like us. Which is probably why we love it and hate simultaneously. Grilled to perfection, and ready for purchase. Fresh. Neat. Organized. Birthed. Sacrified. Worshipped. Shat. Out.
And one more time, here we go dosey doe.
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