Suicide no. 64: The Culling
–by Derek Alan Wilkinson
(Image taken from HERE)
Eleventh grade biology is such a pain in the ass.
Phospholipid bilayers. Cell division. Sodium/potassium pumps. Organelles. Prokaryotes, Eukaryotes, RNA, DNA. Yada-yada-yada.
I know how it all works. I have parents, after all. Birds and bees. Boy meets girl. Game theory gets played. At the end, you either end up with a pretend-to-be-happy marriage, complete with little genetic copies of yourselves running around: children who you pretend not to play favorites with—knowing all the while that you love one of them more than the other one/s. Else, like Dad, there’s a child support garnishment that comes out of your check every two weeks, going to pay for the ex-girlfriend/wife’s new shoes/living room suit/yoga class, while the offspring get secretly tricked into hating one or the other of you by hearing years and years of faint berating whispers from at least one side of a broken family.
That’s fucking human biology.
The men get selected, at least early on, based on height, athletic ability, facial symmetry, and extroverted qualities. Later on, the women have differentiated from their teenage predecessors by veering away from appearances, learning to pick out the ones who seem to have a knack for knowing where and how to find money, and have discovered ways of “taming” these poor bastards into either having a family that they only pretended to want so that they wouldn’t feel alone, or because the boy/man still feels the gnawing need to gain the approval of at least one of his parents—the thirst for a type of love that he needs to fill an endless void that he’ll never truly quench.
The women are chosen on a less tactile basis: youthful, thin appearance; a type of beauty that has a shelf life.
The whole process is ugly no matter which combination of X and Y chromosomes you came into the world with.
And here go the old folk—the scientists, the philosophers: the world’s would-be philanthropists. They offer their hands at trying to steer our progress—making small headway as they go along, all the while failing to realize that the real decisions—the people who actually do the choosing on how we go about populating the planet—are nothing more than society’s not-so-thoughtful fledglings.
While the do-gooders aim for an egalitarian society, we push forward into a world where natural selection—a left-over process from our ape predecessors—governs our actual course. Good looks and money make our decisions for us. There’s no headway, no progress—only the false pretense of such. When it’s all said and done, we breed, and then we grow old—trying to fix the mistakes biology forces us to make in the first place.
After all: even among humans, survival of the fittest is about the most non-egalitarian thing there is.
So, here I am—a teenager wondering just where I fit in to all this. Considering that the Darwinian Algorithm governs all life on the planet, I think I’m faced with a certain peril that we’re all made to face. After all, we were born to die. If biology had gained anything from our immortality, maybe we’d live long enough to have learned something that would free us of the torment caused by the very same process that made us conscious to begin with.
But we die for a reason. The math of it works out better, in terms of mutation and adaptation, if we only live but for so long.
Being consciously aware enough to know all of this, I’m not much of a pretender when it comes to cohabiting with the rest of you; I simply cannot bear the burden of this paradox, and feel that, simply by knowing it, the choice has been made for me.
And by the time the day is through—after the last bell rings—maybe my parents will blame themselves. Maybe they’ll blame the world. Maybe they’ll blame me.
Whatever they do, I just hope that people don’t start to discover why I ended my life the way I did: else humanity may well be doomed.