The Big Head Theory

Homo sapiens are odd, grotesque creatures with a conspicuous ailment: enormous heads. We have this skinny little bodies on top of which sit these wobbly masses. Now, this in and of itself may not be so bad. The problem is in birthing these big heads.

Our heads are so big we have to be born ridiculously early—raw, in fact. We are born these big, fat headed aggregations of functions, burping, farting, drooling, oozing, flaking. It's not pretty. But that is not the problem.

The problem is our heads are so fucking big that on the way out of the woman, they bust the pussy in two. They stretch it and stretch it and then when it can't stretch any more, they bust the seams. The very thing that brings us—men, and women, too—enormous pleasure—namely, the pussy—is mauled in birth. The math is not complicated: to give birth, humans must abandon pleasure.

But if it were only a busted pussy, I could live with it. I mean, it still works, sort of. And there are plenty of other ways of getting and giving pleasure. Of course, the boobs are temporarily glorious before loosing their perk and sliding into a sorry, deflated state. Again, this could be tolerable.

But because our dear little spawn are born so goddamn early, they need—need—every ounce of our being just to make it through the fucking day. For god's sake, they can't even digest on their own. They are powerful, pithy little beasts, siphoning the life out of their elders in order to forge themselves into something resembling life. They are shit drenched vampires.

This is the formula for human existence. This is how our species perpetuates itself. In order to further our lives, we must sacrifice our lives. I have to tell you, this is not a recipe for longevity.

And yet there's something depressing about not breeding. Imagine being 63, all alone in your apartment, going down to the corner bar for another fucking glass of whiskey or to the taqueria for one more fucking burrito. How many burritos can a man eat? At what point does just sitting in a bar, eyeing chicks and drinking bourbon become boring or, worse, humiliating? It's all fine and dandy to be 30-something, single, a non-breeder, and to booze and smoke and eat as much pussy as you can. But it seems another thing all together to be 65 and still doing that. So what the fuck are you gonna do?

To paraphrase Kierkegaard, if you have a kid or don't have a kid, either way you'll regret it.