Our Stupid Bodies, Our Selves

“The Stupid Human Body”

As humans on this physical plane of existence, we come equipped with fleshy meat suits, also known as bodies. It’s sort of a requirement, a prerequisite, that we be composed of matter to, you know, be here.

It’s an unfortunate condition, if you ask me, on account of all the limitations.

Sure, it’s cool that we are composed of the very atoms and molecules that formed during the big bang and that make up stars and all, but why are bodies so stupid?

My body is so stupid it can’t make normal red blood cells, and now I have to rely on the world’s most expensive medication just to make sure my own immune system doesn’t kill me (it will eventually).

What bothers me the most about this particularly stupid limitation is that it really gets in the way of being good at roller derby, coincidently one of the only things I care about. Oh, are you feeling tired during this jam, body? Maybe you should have thought about that before creating those cancerous stem cells, asshole.

Also, being made of matter complicates things like transportation and mortality. We have to travel between point A and point B to get anywhere, which is pretty dumb when you think about it. And these bodies age over time, experiencing wear and tear the more we use them. I mean, whose idea was this?

Also, they look really stupid most of the time. Case in point: me. 

Then there’s all the stupid questions I have to obsess over every day:

  • -What is consciousness
  • -Is it even real
  • -If it is, where is the boundary between my consciousness and the body that encases it
  • -If my body is subject to time, is my consciousness timeless
  • -How come I wake up as the same me every morning
  • -Or do I just think I’m the same me, when in fact I am a totally different me with an entirely new set of memories
  • -Etc.

There is one person I know of at least who seems totally cool with his body, and that is the guy working on the new boiler system at my office. There’s been a parade of 4-5 different dudebros banging and drilling their way through our building for the past two months, and I’m pretty sure they are all named Randy. They are friendly, hard-working guys, braving the dust and mice in the ceiling, and warning me before every loud noise, which is nice of them.

And at least they are skilled in a useful life trade, while I just stare at screens all day and become quietly enraged over commas.

But they are kind of gross. Two in particular belch loudly on a regular basis. One of them more than once has released a series of farts, nay, a volley of farts, with abandon, including one time while in mid-sentence. This would be fine if it weren’t all happening five feet from my desk.

Moreover, what is he eating? I find burping and farting as hilarious as the next person, but maybe he should see someone about this.

Either way, you’ve gotta be comfortable in your body to just casually let things rip like that. Maybe he is a truly enlightened being, and the path to enlightenment is farting whenever, wherever.

If spiritual teachers have taught us anything, it’s that the journey to nirvana, heaven, enlightenment — whatever you call it — is our most important directive in life, so maybe we should all just embrace our stupid bodies. I certainly am. *farts*

 

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