You Are A Badass

You’re a badass.

Yes, you, reading this right now. You’re not adapted for this world. You’re better suited for living in a small band of friends and family, surviving day-to-day. You’re adapted to have kids in your teens, to most likely die before you’re 40, and to always be on the lookout for your next meal or for the predators who want to make you theirs. You’re meant for a short life filled with intense moments, both highs and lows—fighting for your life, sitting around a fire with everyone you love, huddling together for warmth or sharing stories.

Instead, you wake up every morning in a warm bed, within safe walls, with the faintest awareness something is wrong, with the whisper of a longing ache. You put on some version of a uniform and prepare yourself to sit in traffic so you can buy things to try to fill this ache, to take trips so you can get away from it, to come back home and watch other people’s stories to distract yourself from it.

No matter what you do though, it’s still there. No matter how “good” things are, no matter how safe and well-fed and comfortable you are—and your guilt for feeling this just adds to the ache. But you keep getting up every morning anyway, facing a world you know in your bones is wrong.

Because you’re a badass.

Rodin's Fallen Caryatid
The Fallen Caryatid Carrying her Stone, Auguste Rodin 1840-1917
I don't write articles for people who read the New York Times or Nature, I write articles for people who read microwave pizza instructions more than once but are significantly more dangerous as a group. Head Knuckle at Bullshido.
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