The Universe is feeling a little down. Things haven’t been going its way lately. Vague pain in the Virgo supercluster. General malaise. Lack of motivation. Most of all, a horrifying feeling of cosmic dread. The Universe contemplates its vastness and despairs at its own inability to think of anything beyond itself. The Universe wonders if this egoism makes it a bad person. Other things on the Universe’s mental agenda: the enormous rate of its own expansion, whether it should grow an ironic mustache, heat death.
The Universe has been trying to find its G-spot.
The Universe wonders whether conventional gender categories apply to it.
The Universe can never seem to get anything done. It is rather vague on what GTD really means. Short list of accomplishments the Universe does not count: inflation, star birth, accelerating expansion, carbon-based life, you.
In The Universe’s moleskine, there is a poorly drawn picture of a cat sitting on top of a tv set that is displaying pink flowers, with a Banksy quote underneath. The universe considers scanning it and putting it on Tumblr.
The Universe does not pay rent. The Universe smokes not a pack a day but entire star clusters. The Universe approves of Taylor Momsen’s boob flash. The Universe imagines itself to be a rebel without a cause. The Universe dislikes pictures taken with the Hubble telescope. The Universe wonders whether you would appreciate it if NASA made molecular-scale close-ups of your nutsack or areolæ and put them on the internet.
The Universe is cruel and heartless and does not give a shit about you.
Except when it’s afraid and alone and completely aware of its fundamental loneliness. The Universe yearns for a mate or a friend. You and I are not company. The Universe wonders whether the awareness that you consist of billions of cells and co-habitate with billions of bacteria has ever comforted you through a bout of melancholy.
The Universe desperately wants the Many-World Interpretation of Quantum Mechanics to be true.
Oct 28, 2010