It is no secret that when things get extra weird, my pals over at the Zombie Survival Crew throw a pillow at my head and ask me to write up an article or two about certain events. Last week we saw not one or two, but three horrific incidents that required our attention (though I only wrote up two of them).
I like to think I’m pretty desensitized to horrific situations. Dad was an EMT and I spent a good chunk of my childhood looking through his training materials. What I didn’t see there, I picked up in horror movies, thriller novels, and true crime novels. Okay, so my parents weren’t too strict on what I read as long as there wasn’t sex involved. I’m thankful for it. That knowledge is the backbone of all my stories.
Fast-forward back to the here-and-now. I just spent a week wallowing in some of the most shocking things I’ve seen actual humans do to each other. There is a disconnect I can hide behind when writing things that make most people set the book aside and go vomit up their lunch. But knowing that a person is capable, even under the influence of drugs (reportedly), of ripping apart another man’s face and eating it…
I’m done with humanity.
No really. I want to throw in the towel and go for a long hike off a short cliff. We’ve been at war since I graduated high school. The people we’ve trusted to make the right decisions to help us recover as a country are too busy fighting like grade school students. And now motherfuckers are eating each other. That doesn’t even include the other horrors mankind has dabbled in across the globe. If I stopped to consider all of those, the result wouldn’t be pretty.
Frankly, I’m tired of waking up to bad news. What happened to the idea of celebrating life? Some how in the last ten years joy and pleasure have been replaced with terror and pain. It is reflected in the art being produced. Look at the comedy movies that have come out as of late. They aren’t all that funny. They’re just… wrong–pushing the disgusting elements of humanity to the surface and daring us to laugh at it.
I don’t want to laugh. I want to weep.
Maybe I’m too exhausted from my writing deadlines. Perhaps I’m not as desensitized as I originally thought. Or maybe, just maybe, the world really is going to shit and come December some mythical band of bastards on horses will mow us all down.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go crawl in a cave and work. Might as well try to finish something in the time we have before humanity destroys everything.