Friggin’ Weekends, man

Stirring up my vibe, distracting me from writing a guldarn magnum opus every day of the week. Oh well. No regrets, just keep going. Here’s a silly thing about the end of all things:


The human psyche’s capacity for existential dread is, more so than any fossil record or genetic mapping, perfect evidence for the grim idea that once upon a time, our species was little more than a bunch of half-baked lemurs running around, being hunted on the reg. Poor little plesiadapis tricuspidens, all he wanted out of life was to eat bugs, get his proto-rocks off, and not be named after his teeth 65 million years later. Oh, and not have to live in fear of the giant tyrannical demon lizards that haunted it’s every single moment.

I would say fuck him, little plesiadapis, but he is me. His wants are my wants. His fears are my fears.

Yet for good or ill, mammals long outpaced those reptilian bastards, and plesiadapis’ children—despite never quite making it as an apex predator—somehow managed to lay claim to the planet. But the dread remained. Dread of something bigger and nastier than us, lurking just on the other side of the wall. Dread of great beasts, of other men, of goblins and dragons and faeries, of alien visitors from another world.

Dread of either an ineffable, vengeful God, or an incomprehensibly vast and uncaring universe.


It probably never occurred to little plesiadapis tricuspidens to dread a group of amoral reality-shaping ungulates from three Earths over. But it should have.

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