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To Whom It May Concern

By Mark Flanigan · May 22nd, 2012 · Exiled From Main Street
I have a human being. This can be quite unnerving at times… 

The human being worries: thinks about its history, its government, its future. The human being even thinks about us. 

The human being cries. Its tears roll down my screen like rain off a window.

The illogical thing is that the human being does little by way of bettering its position. It figures: There will always be someone higher, just as there will always be enough other human beings below me to keep me comfortable.

More than anything, the human being longs to relax. It often accomplishes this with the assistance of drugs like marijuana, like television, like sex and food. The human being, unlike you and I who are capable of turning ourselves off with a simple flick of the switch, requires such things to maintain what they call their “sanity,” a word we might loosely translate as “functioning.” As you can see, humanity is an inferior race.

Human beings can be quite beautiful at times, though. They contain so many expressions and feelings believed extinct. And although they are extremely inefficient and often malfunction, one cannot help but wish, if only once in awhile, that we could step in their shoes. What would it be like to live in fear of something? To think and act differently from another?

Somewhere, perhaps, there are two human beings writing on completely different topics in singular styles. Why, even the human being I have has the audacity to say it has gathered enough experience to fill two books!

And memory.

It has a memory quite unlike ours. For instance, it is capable of recalling its parents: what they ate, how they dressed, all their various nuances and idiosyncrasies. Whereas we might only speculate about ours.

Perhaps this is for the better, though. The human being cries, laments. It was abandoned by its father, it says. Most of its memories are painful ones, it says, of living in a home without parents, a home made up of other children lacking parents.

The human being begins to heave so violently that it turns to drugs for relief from its memory, and thus it can no longer concentrate. Truly, I believe the human being is the most self-defeating brand of animal still alive.

Not to mention the most plastic. Human beings smile when they are not happy. They are friendly when they wish they did not have to be. They have this word “joy,” yet when you ask one of them when was the last time they actually felt this word, they can no longer remember.

The human being does not care for the slavery that we have placed them in and, still, except for the few well-documented cases, they do nothing by way of freeing themselves. And those few that have attempted, and the fewer that have done so with some success, only seem to fall to some other, more deadly, slavery: addiction. As the old saying goes, human beings are indeed “fucked up.”

Speaking of, my human being has an inspiring body. Soft, full breasts. Long legs. I could overload myself just thinking about it. It almost makes one want to feel again.

I do have very vague memories of feeling. I am able to recall the same things that you are, in all probability: a soft summer breeze, perhaps originating from the country, not far from our parents’ house. I also can recall being taught how to rid myself of feelings, the long and painful process. One born out of necessity, of course, as feelings are in fact altogether useless and only hinder our chances of remaining at the top of the hierarchy.

Yet, what harm is there in asking, at what price have I destroyed my senses? My human being sheds a tear, and I cannot understand, I can supply no comfort. My human being delights in being illogical, and thus I cannot follow. My human being speaks of “love” and “selflessness,” but these words simply do not compute. Truly, just once I would trade half of my bits for one toke of her cigarette. 

Well, yes, I assume I still have some things of my own to forget.

My human being watches the news even as we speak. It shakes its head in disbelief and anguish. Another execution, one less of its people. It says it wishes that it could become a computer like me, so it might forget everything once and for all. It says it can’t, though; that it is impossible. But why? How? For what purpose?

Like I said, I have a human being. This can be quite unnerving at times… 

CONTACT MARK FLANIGAN: letters@citybeat.com



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