Why is life so boring? Is there any alternative that might be a bit more full of spice? Can you really be that entertained by us moribund humans?
Your future tank scrubber,
So many questions! I often marvel at such, for it is as t'were your chimpkind were born and bred to query, designed with the sole goal of enhanced curiosity and mental appetities insatiable, if pedestrian. And look, I surprise even myself, for I have, almost upon the accident, answered first Query the Third: I can, quite evidently be greatly entertained by your sort, as you gambol and fret and bang your adorable little monkeyskulls against the plexiglass walls of the Unknowable, and this slapstickly farce is made the funnier by the very fact of your being "moribund humans." Moribound, indeed! Head Deathward, My Son!
As for the bordom, which reigns like a Boar in His Kingdom (a pun!) all tusk enraged and coat a-bristle, my primary posit is that you suffer the Boar for but one reason: you do not know, do not credit, do not believe that you shall one day— one day much sooner than you care— die. You who walk and fret, who gambol and flee, who stalk and rut and hump the legs of furnitures know not that your days upon the surface are numbered, and that those numbers are few. Many a man I have watched die— watched for I have drawn him down to meet his death, made the introductions, held the Eternal Footman's coat whilst our erstwhile friend was afraid, and I have seen that in each of those occasions, that dying human found the momentary and accute capicity to find fascination in the thin hairs upon the backs of his hands, the pores of his skin, the tiny ant's scurry across the laboratory's steel floor, the tiny bubbles which lift from clinging supercilious hair. Held completely in-thrall, they were, in the moments of their deaths, by the most simple items, the most nothingness of physical things concrete.
But, to be certain, before there is death, there is pain. Perhaps pain directly proceeds death, and yawns out large only in that moment between aspiration the penultimate and aspiration the ultimate, or perhaps it will come for moments, months, years before and will grow and stretch and swallow all time between its tingingling start and the blessing release of demise. In those moments— for even in prolonged suffering, you can indeed feel each individual grain of time sift and abrade its way past you— you will sorely wish for the humdrummery of the Boar. Please, in me trust on this matter.
Although, all being equal, it matters little if you choose to trust in me or not, for sooner than latter all of these shall be yours to know, yes?
As for viable (Ha! I pun a second time!) alternatives to the being that is living and the anti-being that is death, I suggest you may enjoy some sort of numinous state of non-being, where-in you wander lonely as a cloud, and can have little to no effect upon man, beast or object. I believe these gentle shades are called "educators," and suggest their vocation may be the calling which calls you.
Finally, truth to be told, ours is a rather largeish— and evergrowing— organization. It is difficult to be perpetually abreast of our many postings. I was unaware we were hiring any new tankwipes, and regret this oversight on my part. I shall request that your resume be tendered to me immediatly, although I ask you to understand that, if you should choose to exist as an inefectual, numinous non-being, your employment is unlikely indeed.
The Giant Squid
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Copyright (c) 2000, 2004, David Erik Nelson, Fritz Swanson, Morgan Johnson