It was half past noon, and her class had started at ten. Jessie did not care. Punctuality was for suckers, for those who bought into the system’s lies. She had dropped out of high school in her junior year, fed up with the stares, the whispers, the teachers who saw her as a problem rather than a person. The GED was her mother’s idea, a half-hearted stab at redemption, but Jessie went because it got her out of the house, away from the latest boyfriend’s abusive tones. Today, Seattle felt wrong. Spring had brought weeks of uncharacteristic sunshine, bathing the city in a golden glow that almost made you forget the perceived endless drizzle. But not today. The sky was a bruised purple, heavy with clouds that pressed down like a wet migraine. A chill wind sliced through her thin hoodie, carrying the acrid scent of exhaust from the nearby interstate. She shoved her hands deeper into her pockets, fingers brushing the frayed edges of her worn KoRn CD case art-book. It was old school, but she preferred the tangible grit of it over digital robbery nonsense.

Headphones clamped over her ears, Jonathan Davis’s guttural screams filled her head. The music was her armor, drowning out the world, the honking festering diva’s in traffic, the alcohol-breathed muttering homeless man on the corner. But a shiny Ford sedan with paper plates, swerved too close to the curb, its horn blaring like an accusation. Jessie jerked her head up, startled, and her foot caught on an uneven slab of concrete. Time slowed, as she flailed, arms windmilling, but gravity won. Her knees hit first, scraping raw against the pavement, pant cloth tearing like paper. Then her head followed, cracking against the ground with a sickening thud. Pain exploded behind her eyes, a white-hot burst that swallowed everything.

Blackness engulfed her, not empty but alive, a viscous void that pulled her down. In that dream, a figure waited. It was not human, not really. Tall and gaunt, cloaked in shadows that writhed like smoke, its eyes glowed like embers in a dying fire. Horns curled from its forehead, not dramatic like in movies but subtle, twisted things grown from bone. It reeked of sulfur and rot, and when it spoke, its voice scraped her soul like a rusty blade. “Jessie,” it whispered, leaning close enough that she felt the heat of its breath. “Your hate is beautiful. But hate without action is wasted. Silly girl. Murder, Jessie. Sweet, cleansing murder. It’s the only way to make the pain stop.”

She had never considered it, not really. Sure, she had fantasized about punching her mother’s boyfriends, keying their cars, slipping something into their drinks to make them retch. But murder? That was a line she had not crossed, even in her darkest thoughts. The figure, demon or devil or something worse, reached out a clawed hand, and images flooded her mind: blood-soaked hands, screams echoing in empty rooms, the intoxicating thrill of power over life and death. It was terrifying, exhilarating, a siren call to her rage.

She woke to gentle pressure on her shoulder, a man’s voice cutting through the fog. “Hey, miss? You okay? That was a nasty fall.” He was middle-aged, thin brown hair, with a kind face lined by years of worry, probably a dad who coached Little League on weekends. He had pulled his car over, hazards flashing, and knelt beside her, heartfelt concern etching his features perfectly complimenting his soft voice. Jessie blinked, sat up slowly, her head throbbing like a rotten tooth. Blood trickled from her scraped knees. She rubbed her temple, feeling a lump already forming, and slung her backpack over one shoulder. Without a word, she stood and walked away, leaving him on the sidewalk. He did not follow, just shook his head. “Probably embarrassed,” he muttered, climbing back into his car.

The GED center was a squat, beige building wedged between a laundromat and a pawn shop, its windows grimy with city soot. Jessie pushed through the door, the bell jingling like a mocking laugh. The classroom smelled of stale coffee and desperation, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry wasps. Her instructor, Mrs. Hargrove, a plump woman in her fifties with mousy brown hair pinned in a bun and glasses that magnified her eyes to cartoonish proportions, looked up from her desk. “Oh my God, your knee!” Blood had trailed down Jessie’s leg, darkening to a near-black crust by her ankle, like something out of a horror flick.

Jessie glanced down, then up, forcing a smile that felt like a grimace. “What, you’ve never seen cosplay before?” It was a lie, but defiance was her default. Mrs. Hargrove’s mouth opened and closed like a stranded fish, shock and offense warring on her face. Jessie slouched to her seat in the back, rubbing her head. The pulsation was worse now, a rhythmic throb that matched her heartbeat. “When are you going to start killing, Jessie?” The voice slithered into her mind, that same demonic rasp from the dream. She snapped her head up, and there was Mrs. Hargrove, smiling at her, but her teeth were wrong, jagged shards like broken glass, glinting under the lights. “What?” Jessie blurted. Immediately Jessie began rubbing her eyes hard enough to see stars. When she looked again, the instructor had apparently stepped out for a moment. The other students, a ragtag mix of dropouts and dreamers, barely noticed her outburst, noses buried in workbooks or phones. But one guy, a 23-year-old with jet-black hair slicked back like a greaser, watched her. His eyes, dark and sharp, held a smirk that made her skin crawl, not because it was cruel but because it felt like he knew something. He was handsome in a dangerous way, all lean muscle and sharp cheekbones, the kind of guy who’d break your heart and laugh about it.

Mrs. Hargrove bustled back into the room, her orthopedic shoes squeaking on the linoleum. She handed Jessie a damp cloth, the kind that smelled faintly of bleach and institutional despair. “Here, Jessica, please clean up.” Jessie’s lip curled; she hated being called Jessica, like it was some prissy version of her she’d never been. “Doesn’t even know my name,” she muttered, snatching the cloth and scrubbing at the dried blood on her leg. It smeared, turning her shin a sickly reddish-brown, like desert clay.

Class dragged on, a blur of math problems and grammar rules that felt like chains binding her to a world she despised. When it ended, the black-haired guy sauntered over, boots clicking with purpose. “Where you gonna be later?” he asked, voice low, like they shared a secret. Jessie did not look at him. “No,” she snapped, shoving past him toward the door. He laughed, a sound that followed her like a shadow. “Later sunshine!” he hollered as she slipped her headphones over her bob and stepped into the parking lot.

The walk home was a descent into her own mind. Jessie thought about her mother, probably out with some new guy, another loser who’d leave her crying by morning. She thought about her father, his cough that rattled like death itself, his hands rough but kind when he tucked her in as a ***. The music in her ears was her lifeline, but as she walked, the lyrics began to shift. “Is this why you did it, something I can’t forgive?” morphed into something darker: “To keep the world improving, murder is worth doing, the blood is warm and soothing.” The voice was that same demonic rasp, low and guttural, burrowing into her skull. A ringing overtook her ears, sharp and piercing, like a dentist’s drill. She yanked off her headphones, heart pounding, and found herself frozen on the sidewalk, unable to move. Time slipped away; thirty minutes passed like ten seconds. Blood trickled from her left ear, drying in crusty streaks down her neck. When she came to, she was trembling, tears stinging her eyes. She was losing her mind, or worse, her body was betraying her, damaged beyond repair.

Panic surged, and Jessie sprinted home, legs pumping, breath ragged. But fate was cruel. At the same spot where she’d fallen before, her foot caught again. She tried to protect her head mid-fall, arms wrapping instinctively, but something unseen yanked her left leg back, flipping her body forward violently. Her hands, meant to cushion the fall, flailed uselessly. Her head smashed into the pavement, with a wet crack that echoed in her skull. Blackness swallowed her again.

No dream this time, just pain and chaos when she woke. Firemen and paramedics surrounded her, their faces blurred by her swimming vision. “Stay with us mam,” a distorted voice said steady but urgent. They loaded Jessie into an ambulance, the stretcher cold against her back. As her eyes adjusted, the world turned grotesque. The paramedics’ faces contorted, their features twisting into dirty, unkept features resembling those of stereotypical serial killers from late-night TV specials, eyes hollow, mouths sneering. The ambulance itself was a nightmare: rusted walls, equipment dangling like broken bones, the air thick with the stench of decay.

At the hospital, it was worse, fires burned around, black smoke infested the ceilings of the halls. The building loomed like a decaying corpse, walls peeling, tiles cracked, the air heavy with gas, mildew and despair. Nurses and doctors, obese, decrepit and ancient, shuffled toward her, their teeth grayed, browned and rotting. Jessie was wheeled into a room, the wheels of the gurney squeaking like screams. Machines beeped erratically with distorted undertones, their screens flickering and cracked. Nurses surrounded her, their hands cold and clammy as they prepared syringes filled with what looked like yellow-black slime, dripping from broken dirty needles. “This’ll help,” one said, her voice a rasp that echoed the demon’s. Jessie’s heart raced; she could not stop crying. The injection site on her arm burned, the skin around it purpling and festering before her eyes. “Don’t you just feel like murder, Jessie?” The demon was there, perched in the corner, body half way phased through the soggy melting wall, the demon’s ember eyes glowing, claws tapping rhythmically against the sludgy soaked dry wall. The creature tossed a scalpel into her lap, the blade glinting dully. The demon screeched in a guttural mumble “They all lie, they all die.”

Jessie clutched the scalpel and leapt out of the bed, slicing the closest syringe away from her body, her hand trembling. The nurses closed in, their faces morphing further, skin sagging like melted wax, eyes bulging with malice. Security shouted in the hallway, boots pounding closer. Her heart thundered, a drumbeat of terror and rage. She raised the scalpel, unsure if she meant to surrender it or strike again. A sharp pain slit through Jessie’s collar bones, a twitch of her neck… what was that sensation? A wave of static and heat crashed over her, like a tidal wave of electric water, and she collapsed, smashing through a tray of surgical tools, their clatter the last sound she heard. Her body could not take a second more of the physical and psychological trauma it was enduring.

A month passed, though to Jessie it felt like the end had already come and passed. She woke in a hospital bed, her body frail, muscles atrophied. A feeding tube snaked from her nose, and monitors beeped steadily. Her mother sat beside her, looking worn but normal, her face free of the grotesque distortions Jessie had seen. “Oh, honey,” her mother gasped, tears in her eyes. “You’re awake… that’s so… so good honey…”  her mother cried with sincerity as she gently held her daughter and kissed her head. The room was clean, sterile, the walls white and unblemished, the equipment gleaming. Jessie tugged at the feeding tube, panic rising as alarms blared. Her mother shouted for help, and a nurse rushed in, young and healthy, her smile kind as she stabilized Jessie. “You’re okay,” the nurse said. “You’ve been through a lot and we’re here to help.”

Tests followed, days of scans and questions. Jessie had suffered a severe concussion. The doctors spoke of brain trauma, of possible hallucinations caused by swelling or bleeding. They were kind, professional, nothing like the monsters she’d seen. She was released conditionally, with prescriptions and follow-up appointments. The demon had not returned, its voice silent since that final collapse.

But Jessie was not the same. She moved through the world like a ghost, her steps tentative, her eyes darting to shadows. The hate was still there, but it was quieter now, buried under a new fear: that the demon was not gone, only waiting. At night, she lay awake, listening for that rasp, the whisper of murder. The scalpel was gone, but her fingers twitched, as if they remembered its weight. Seattle’s streets, once just cold and gray, now seemed alive with menace, every alley hiding ember eyes, every stranger’s smile hiding jagged teeth. She avoided the spot where she’d fallen, taking longer routes to her GED classes, but the city itself felt like a trap, closing in.

Her mother noticed the change, tried to reach her, but Jessie pushed her away. The men still came and went, their voices loud through thin walls, and Jessie’s headphones became her refuge again, even with the memories of the demon’s voice playing karaoke.

What was to come next… Jessie refused to admit she already knew…

His house was a rambling Victorian affair, paint peeling like sunburned skin, with gables that creaked in the wind and a porch swing that swung on its own sometimes, as if ghosts were taking a load off. Inside, the rooms smelled of pipe tobacco and musty books, shelves groaning under tomes with spines cracked from centuries of use. Spells whispered from yellowed pages, potions bubbled in the cellar, but Elias kept his magic subtle, hidden from prying eyes. He had three dogs: Buster, a hulking German Shepherd with a bark like thunder; Daisy, a sprightly Beagle who chased her tail in endless circles; and Max, a mutt of indeterminate breed, all wiry fur and sad eyes that seemed to know more than they should. They were good dogs, loyal and uncomplicated, eating their kibble from metal bowls in the kitchen without complaint.

And then there was the cat. Whiskers, Elias had named her, though she answered to nothing but the rattle of a food can. She was a long-haired white beauty, fur like fresh snow on a moonlit field, eyes green as envy itself. But beauty hid a bottomless pit of greed. Whiskers wasn't just hungry; she was ravenous, a creature driven by some ancient, primal urge that no full belly could satisfy. Biology, Elias figured, or maybe something darker, a glitch in her feline soul that turned want into need, need into obsession.

It started small, as these things often do. Elias would fill the dogs' bowls at dusk, when the kitchen filled with the golden slant of evening light filtering through lace curtains yellowed by time. The kibble clattered into the bowls... brown nuggets smelling of rendered meat and grains, a hearty mix of cow and chicken parts ground fine and baked hard. Buster, Daisy, and Max would gather 'round, tails wagging like metronomes, their jaws working in rhythmic crunches that echoed off the linoleum floor. Whiskers would watch from her perch on the windowsill, those green eyes narrowing to slits, her tail twitching like a serpent ready to strike.

She'd eaten already, of course. Elias spoiled her with tins of fancy feast... tuna in gravy, salmon pate... portions that would sate any normal cat twice over. Her belly would swell, fur stretching taut over the bulge, but it wasn't enough. Never enough. Biology, remember? That hardwired imperative to gorge when food was plentiful, a holdover from wild days when meals were uncertain. But in Elias's house, food was always there, and Whiskers's biology had twisted into something uglier: gluttony laced with spite.

The first theft was sly. As the dogs bent to their bowls, Whiskers slunk down, her paws silent as fog on the river. She darted in, snatched a mouthful from Buster's edge, and retreated before he could growl. The kibble crunched between her teeth, dry and savory, exploding with flavors of blended beasts that her fancy feasts lacked. Satisfaction bloomed in her gut, warm and illicit, better than any legitimate meal. Elias caught her at it once or twice, his voice booming like a distant storm: "Whiskers! Stay away from the dogs' food! You've had your fill, you greedy little thief!"

She didn't care. Rules were for dogs, those slobbering fools who begged and obeyed. Cats made their own laws. And so she grew bolder. Nights when Elias dozed in his armchair by the fire, pipe smoldering, she'd raid the bowls outright, batting kibble across the floor like marbles, devouring what she could before the dogs stirred. Her body changed, slowly at first. Fur that once flowed like silk now bunched over a rounding belly, her steps losing their grace, turning into a waddle. She was getting fat, fatter than any house cat had a right to be, but the thrill outweighed the discomfort. Stealing was the spice; the fullness, the drug.

Elias warned her time and again. "Cat," he'd say, scooping her up in his gnarled hands, his eyes like chips of blue ice, "you're pushing it. Let the dogs eat in peace. You're already bursting at the seams." She'd purr innocently, rubbing her head against him, but inside, her mind was a whirl of defiance. Food. More food. The squat in the litter box became a ritual, pushing out pounds of half-digested mush, the stench filling the air like a foul perfume, just to make room for the next raid. Blended cows and chicken, churned into dog chow, sliding down her throat in glorious gulps.

The wizard's patience wore thin. Elias had seen enough in his long life... demons in the woods, curses that twisted men into monsters... to know when a lesson was needed. Magic wasn't for petty squabbles, but Whiskers was testing him. One evening, as the autumn wind howled outside, rattling the panes like skeletal fingers, he cornered her on the counter. The kitchen smelled of roasting chicken from his own supper, steam rising from the pot like ghosts. Whiskers eyed the dogs' bowls, her mouth watering.

"Cat," Elias intoned, his voice low and grave, carrying the weight of ancient incantations, "this is your final warning. If you don't stop stealing from the dogs... I'll curse you with such obesity that you won't lose even after weeks of starvation! I'll paralyze you, and give you overwhelming girth to boot! You'll regret it! Mark my words!"

Whiskers flicked her tail, dismissing him. Wizards and their bluster. What did he know of hunger's call? That night, she ignored the dogs altogether. Instead, as Elias sat at the table, fork midway to his mouth with a juicy bite of chicken, she leaped up, bold as brass. Her paws landed on the edge of his plate, and she snatched a morsel right from under his nose. The meat was warm, seasoned with herbs and salt, a forbidden delight.

Elias's eyes flashed with fury. "Enough!" he thundered, and the air crackled with power. A wave of magic surged from his fingertips, invisible but potent, wrapping around Whiskers like a shroud. In that instant, her body betrayed her. Fat bloomed beneath her skin, swelling like dough in an oven. Her belly expanded, tripling in size, fur stretching thin over rolls of blubber that jiggled and quivered. She yowled in shock, her legs buckling under the sudden weight. Three times her body fat... more, perhaps... and she toppled from the table, rolling like a snowball down a hill. She smacked into a near wooden chair seat with a thud that rattled the dishes, then hit the floor with a meaty slap, linoleum cool against her overheated flesh.

At first, ecstasy. The fullness was unlike anything she'd known... a tidal wave of satiation crashing through her, every cell stuffed to bursting. She moaned with joy, a deep, rumbling purr that vibrated her massive form. But then reality seeped in. She tried to stand, paws scrabbling weakly, but her body was a prison of lard. Legs splayed out, useless; tail buried under folds. She was immobile, a white blob on the kitchen floor, heart pounding in panic.

Elias stood over her, face stern. "You brought this on yourself, cat. Learn!" He shouted again "Learn damn you!" And he left her there, the dogs eyeing her curiously before returning to their bowls. Whiskers watched them eat, envy burning like acid in her gut. Buster crunched kibble inches from her nose, Daisy lapped at scraps, Max slurped water with noisy abandon. She moaned in anger, a pitiful wail that echoed off the walls, but she couldn't move. Not an inch.

The days blurred into nights, the kitchen her world. Pee trickled out first, warm and shameful, soaking into her fur. Elias cleaned it up without a word, his broom sweeping like judgment, mop swabbing in wicked squeals. The smell clung to everything... ammonia-sharp urine... mingling with the perpetual aroma of dog food that taunted her. Hunger gnawed now, the curse's fullness fading into a hollow ache, but Elias provided only water. A shallow dish placed before her nose, her head lolling sideways, half-submerged by gravity's cruel pull. She lapped weakly, water dribbling down her chin, pooling around her immense form.

Months dragged on, seasons shifting outside the window. Fall leaves turned to winter snow, blanketing Derry in white silence. Whiskers wasted away, fat melting slowly without sustenance, her body cannibalizing itself. Skin hung loose now, fur matted and dull, eyes sunken into sockets like embers in ash. Still, she couldn't move, limbs atrophied, muscles forgotten, and the wizard's curse in tow. The dogs came and went, eating their fill, their barks and playful romps a torture. She'd moan when they approached, green eyes pleading, but they ignored her, sensing the wrongness.

One crisp spring morning, when the river thawed and birds sang mocking tunes, Elias squatted before her. His knees creaked like the house's old bones, his face lined with reluctant pity. "Cat," he said softly, "I've taught you a lesson, haven't I?" Whiskers moaned, a feeble sound, her body a shadow of its former obesity but still pinned by the curse's remnants.

"I will lift this curse," he continued, "if you swear you'll never steal from the dogs again." Another moan, what passed for assent in her broken state.

With a sigh, Elias waved his hand, murmuring words in a tongue older than Derry itself. The magic unraveled, weight lifting like mist in the sun. Whiskers felt strength return, tentative at first. She pushed up, legs wobbling, body gaunt and trembling. Freedom! She staggered to the litter box, relieving herself properly for the first time in months, then lapped more water, the coolness a balm.

But biology is a stubborn beast. The very next day, as Elias filled the dogs' bowls, Whiskers felt the pull. The kibble's scent hit her like a drug, memories of theft's thrill overriding the horror. She darted in, snatching a mouthful from Daisy's bowl. The dogs barked, Elias shouted, but it was too late. The cycle resumed.

Years passed in a haze of gluttony. Whiskers ballooned again, stealing with reckless abandon, her body a battlefield of excess. Health faltered: breaths came short, heart stuttered like a faulty engine. One rainy afternoon, not quite as fat as the time of the wizards curse, but near by her own self-destructive choices... she collapsed mid-food raid, eyes glazing over, felling from sight of the freshly filled dog bowls, to the dusty floor, as organs failed under the strain. Elias found her cold and contorted laying on her side, lifeless, a white furred husk.

He buried her in the backyard, under a willow that wept eternal tears. "No more cats," he muttered to the wind, pipe clenched in his teeth. The dogs whined at his side, but Elias turned away, the house feeling emptier, the magic dimmer. In Derry, life went on... **** on bikes, gossip at the diner... but for Elias Thorn, the wizard who cursed a cat, some lessons cut too deep.

Rules Imposed by Parents

Many parents establish numerous guidelines, particularly those from the baby boomer generation. These individuals frequently set firm expectations, such as requiring rest to begin at 7 p.m., even if the next day's start time was as late as 8 a.m. This results in about 13 hours of sleep, which exceeds typical needs for many in their developmental stages. According to established recommendations, individuals aged 6 to 12 years require 9 to 12 hours of sleep per day, while those aged 13 to 18 need 8 to 10 hours (AASM Consensus). Similar guidelines confirm that oversleeping beyond these ranges can disrupt natural rhythms without providing additional benefits (CDC Sleep). Reports emphasize that enforcing more than necessary, such as 13 hours for those who naturally need less, may lead to unnecessary confinement and potential resentment (NSF Duration). For younger individuals, such as those aged 3 to 5, 10 to 13 hours aligns more closely, but rigid application for older ones often lacks justification (AASM FAQs).

When questioned about these rules, parents might respond with phrases like "because I said so." This reply lacks substance and essentially admits an absence of reasoned justification. It aligns with patterns observed in authoritarian parenting styles, common among baby boomers, where authority supersedes explanation (Parenting Science). Research indicates that such non-answers can hinder the development of critical thinking in those being raised, as they discourage open dialogue and mutual understanding. Instead of fostering compliance through logic, it promotes resentment. Studies on sleep routines show that consistent but flexible bedtimes, adjusted to individual needs, lead to better overall rest quality and emotional regulation (JPP Routines). For instance, investigations have found that strict, unexplained routines correlate with increased behavioral difficulties, while collaborative approaches improve adherence and well-being (JPP Intervention).

In contrast, evidence suggests that overly rigid sleep enforcement can lead to resistance and poorer sleep outcomes in the long term (APA Monitor). Parents who explain rules based on health data, such as the need for 9 to 12 hours to support cognitive function and mood stability, build trust (Healthy *****ren). This approach contrasts sharply with the boomer-era norm of unquestioned authority, which studies link to generational gaps in communication (Today Parent). To illustrate, if a young person wakes naturally after 10 hours, forcing an extra three hours disrupts their circadian rhythm, potentially causing irritability or reduced focus the next day, as noted in sleep research (Harvard Hygiene). Disruptions to these rhythms in youth can lead to broader issues, including mood alterations and difficulty with daily functioning (Harvard Mood). Authoritarian methods, by limiting explanations, may also reduce the ability of those raised under them to think independently or make decisions confidently (Teachable Academy). Overall, these practices highlight a disconnect between imposed rules and actual developmental benefits, leading to unnecessary conflicts.

Side note: One of the most annoying things from my own *****hood was my grandma always suggesting naps and early sleep out of basic annoyance of us. She'd call it the "blanket party" and say "time for the blanket party" but what it always came off as "I don't like your personalities, and I'm tired of you, so I'm going to force you to be bored and alone now".

Expanding on this, boomer parenting often emphasized obedience without rationale, differing from more modern styles that prioritize dialogue (Times India). Millennial approaches, for example, tend to incorporate flexibility and explanation, reducing resistance (Everymom). Studies show that when rules are presented with clear reasons, compliance increases, and emotional bonds strengthen (UCLA Parenting). Rigid enforcement, however, correlates with higher stress levels and potential long-term relational strain (APA Deprived). Parents should consider age-specific needs; for instance, preschool-aged individuals benefit from routines that include naps totaling 10 to 13 hours, but as they grow, adjustments prevent over-restriction (Sleep Foundation). Ignoring these can result in young people feeling controlled rather than guided, fostering a sense of illogical authority.

Chores and Building Skills

During my formative years, I was assigned regular household tasks, which struck me as lacking clear purpose. Parents often justify these as ways to instill work ethic, yet they failed to spark genuine interest or motivation in areas unrelated to personal passions. I preferred spending time on my computer, an activity that others might view as tedious but that engaged me deeply. Assigning mismatched tasks does not inherently create enthusiasm for unappealing work.

A more logical strategy involves identifying the interests of those being raised and directing efforts toward skill-building in those domains. For example, comparing this to animal behaviors, one would not train a fish to climb trees, as it would yield poor results; instead, focus on enhancing its natural swimming abilities. This principle applies to human development. Research supports assigning age-appropriate chores starting around age 3, noting benefits like higher self-esteem and improved social skills (UH Chores). However, studies emphasize that chores should align with individual strengths to maximize engagement (Horizon List). Reports highlight that when tasks contribute to family well-being and match interests, they foster responsibility and confidence (MSU Benefits).

Drawbacks emerge when chores are generic or excessive. Analyses indicate that overloading with unrelated duties can reduce time for homework or relaxation, leading to stress (Housework PMC). Expert warnings advise against using chores as punishment, as it associates them with negativity rather than growth (CCE Chores). In contrast, tailored education based on interests enhances motivation and achievement. Investigations show that interest-driven learning energizes academic trajectories and boosts success (Interest Matters). For instance, if a young person enjoys technology, assigning computer-related tasks like organizing digital files builds relevant skills, unlike unrelated cleaning duties.

This mismatch in traditional parenting often stems from boomer styles, which prioritize broad obedience over personalization. Modern approaches favor authoritative methods that incorporate dialogue and adaptation (Kinder Care). Why assign chores that prepare for low-skill jobs when the goal is lifelong success? Evidence indicates that interest-aligned responsibilities promote mental health and independence (Bright Horizons). Parents aiming for mastery should avoid scattering efforts across irrelevant tasks, as this dilutes expertise, per principles in vocational education research (ISLS Framework). Furthermore, excessive or mismatched chores can contribute to lower academic performance, particularly if not balanced with personal interests (PMC Housework).

To elaborate, benefits of well-matched chores include building resilience and life skills, such as organization and time management (AACAP Chores). When parents involve young people in family contributions that feel meaningful, it enhances their sense of belonging and reduces behavioral issues (MSU Encourage). However, forcing tasks without consideration for preferences can increase resistance and stress, leading to avoidance behaviors (Psychology Chores). Research confirms that *****ren who participate in chores exhibit higher life satisfaction and better self-care abilities as adults (PT Research). Avoiding punishment-linked chores prevents negative associations, allowing for positive habit formation (CCE Discipline). Interest-driven approaches not only improve engagement but also support cognitive growth, as seen in studies on motivation (Science Direct). In boomer versus millennial contexts, the shift toward personalization reflects an understanding that rigid, one-size-fits-all tasks hinder rather than help (1819 News).

Violence in Parenting

In my early experiences, my father addressed some conflicts through physical means, including an incident where he restricted my breathing for several minutes and another where he forcefully struck my hand against a metal surface (a Washing Machine). My mother employed belts for "spankings" and facial slaps. There was also a time when, after removing my door handle to limit my privacy, she used a fire extinguisher to force me out of the room by filling it with the extinguisher's discharge, an action that succeeded but left lasting resentment.

Such physical approaches raise questions about long-term outcomes. Do parents believe that inflicting harm on their offspring will yield positive results over time? Memories from early years persist into adulthood. Extensive research confirms the detrimental effects of physical punishment. Prospective studies summarize investigations showing associations with emotional problems and substance abuse later in life (Lancet Review). Research reveals that spanking affects brain regions tied to emotion regulation, similar to severe abuse (Harvard Effect). These findings hold across cultures, as per global reviews (UN Report). Later, some parents deny these events, dismissing concerns as exaggeration, a form of gaslighting that exacerbates relational strain (PT Damage). Gaslighting in such relationships can lead to self-doubt, confusion, and lowered self-esteem among offspring (Simply Psychology).

The evidence is consistent: physical punishment predicts increases in behavior problems over time and offers no benefits to well-being (WHO Report). It can impair neural responses to threats, heightening sensitivity similar to maltreatment (PMC Corporal). Globally, an estimated 1.2 billion young people face this annually, with risks to mental health including anxiety and low self-esteem (WHO Facts). Denials or gaslighting compound these effects, undermining trust and intimacy (PT Danger). Parents should recognize that such methods fail to teach positive behaviors and instead model violence, perpetuating cycles (End Violence).

The Core Focus: What Parenthood Entails

This discussion extends beyond critiquing flawed parenting to defining ideal roles. Central to effective parenthood is unconditional love, which involves accepting and supporting offspring regardless of their actions or achievements. It stems from deep familiarity gained through observation from birth onward, providing unparalleled insight into their character.

For parents who guide positively, this love flows naturally as offspring emulate kindness, empathy, and healthy habits. Psychological definitions describe it as affection without strings, fostering resilience and self-worth (PT Secret). Benefits include better stress management, physical health, and brain development (Newport Power). Studies link it to reduced stress and emotional happiness (UCLA Affection).

Reflecting on my own parents, my mother likely offers unconditional love but prioritizes her own needs. My father is more self-focused, with minimal actual involvement in anything positive in my life, leading to estrangement from not just me, but supposedly all his offspring. Ideal parents view their offspring with admiration and provide consistent support. Public criticism, such as on television (my father went on a defamatory documentary to speak ill of me... wild, I know), signals failure, as parents bear responsibility for outcomes (Family Education). Boomer tendencies toward authoritarianism contrast with modern emphases on empathy (Substack Wars).

Unconditional love protects against *****hood stress effects, enhancing immunity and handling abilities (Elite Daily). It models secure attachment, promoting healthier relationships (Newport Institute). Without it, young people may struggle with self-doubt or emotional regulation (Gottman Blog).

Ideal Reflections

Ultimately, if offspring exhibit difficulties, accountability lies with parents. As a parent myself, I prioritize avoiding blame while offering apologies freely (meaning even if I don't think I am at fault, when it comes to being a parent of my two offspring, I take the blame whenever possible to avoid creating any resentment). Boomer parents often resist apologies, labeling concerns expressed by their offspring as irrational (Filby Blog). However, research stresses that apologies strengthen bonds and teach accountability (JFP Apologies). They enhance self-worth and safety (Gen Mindful).

To repair, express sorrow and inquire how to amend (say you're sorry, ask what you can do to improve things). This simple act rebuilds trust (PMC Should). For those with boomer parents, break cycles by prioritizing functionality, kindness, and health (I wish we could just sign all our parents up to "How to be decent parents of adult offspring" courses). Regular check-ins affirm care and stability, fulfilling the parental role well into adulthood.

In summary, effective parenthood revolves around logic, empathy, and unconditional support, backed by evidence showing superior outcomes in well-being and relationships. By integrating researched approaches, parents can foster positive growth, avoiding past pitfalls. Apologies model humility, boosting self-esteem (Gen Mindful Importance). Unconditional love reduces anxiety and builds happiness (UCLA Study). Tailored chores enhance skills without stress (MSU Benefits). Flexible rules promote critical thinking (Parenting Science). Avoiding physical harm prevents long-term issues (Lancet Review). These facts underscore the need for evolved practices. This framework not only clarifies parenthood but empowers better outcomes for future generations.

But really... this might be a test of whether or not you are a great parent: Is there anything that your offspring could do that would ever make you stop loving/supporting them? (within the confines of the law, obviously) - If your answer was "no" or "highly unlikely", your offspring are probably in good hands.

The basis of a lot of our self-esteems lies within the concept we hold of how our parents view/support us. We lose the support of our parents, not only does that make us think less of them, but also leaves us doubling or tripling down on our loyalty to our own offspring so they will never feel the abandonment we do. Your leading job as a parent is to never fail to back your offspring up when they need you.

Sometimes I wish I could have had a dad like me... but then I think... maybe I wouldn't wind up as motivated to be a good dad had I never gone through what I have... and then, I think... well... then I'm lucky I went through what I did, so at least my son & daughter can have what I wish I had.

Better they have a better life, than just me.

According to the CDC’s 2023 provisional data, heart disease took 695,547 lives. Cancer claimed 613,331. Unintentional injuries, like car crashes, ended 222,518. Stroke took 162,336. Chronic lower respiratory diseases, like COPD, hit 147,382. Alzheimer’s accounted for 120,124. Diabetes killed 97,566. Kidney disease took 55,406. Chronic liver disease and cirrhosis ended 54,766. Even COVID-19, in a quieter year, caused 49,303 deaths. That adds up to over 2.7 million deaths from these causes alone. And again... how many people died in mass shootings in 2023? Not even 1,000? Yet what have you heard about more than all the above combined? Right, shootings. Does anyone really care about loss of human life considering the mathematical abomination we have here? Is everyone just obsessed with the method of death, and not the death itself? How mentally sick is that?

When you put 722 next to 2.7 million, it’s clear where the bigger problem lies. Mass shootings are tragic, no question - they are terrifying, horrible & I wouldn't wish that on anyone - just like, I wouldn't wish cancer on anyone, because that is sociopath behavior (shout out to you know who). But these horrible violent deaths are a small piece of the puzzle compared to the daily toll of these other conditions. The data isn’t here to judge; it’s just showing us what’s happening.

Why We’re Drawn to the Drama

So why do mass shootings dominate our conversations? Because they’re loud and visible. Imagine a crowded mall, sudden gunfire, people running for their lives. It’s a scene straight out of a movie, and it sticks with us. Heart disease, on the other hand, is a quiet killer. It’s someone collapsing at home after years of poor diet. Cancer is a slow battle, often fought behind closed doors. Stroke might hit while someone’s alone, with no one to witness the fall. These deaths don’t make the news the way a shooting does. They lack the instant shock value, the story we can share and feel part of.

That’s not to say those 722 lives don’t matter. They matter as much as 722 lives should always matter --- but definitely not as much as 1,722 or 17,220 or 172,200 lives - because that's just math, more lives lost = more important issue... unless you're saying people who are victims of shootings are some how more important people than people who die other ways - in which case... wtf? Everyone matters the same, everyone gets the "1 human life" value equivalent. But the 7,400 people dying every day (10 times more in a day, than the collective losses from shootings every year) from heart disease, cancer, and the rest don’t get the same spotlight. It’s human nature to react to the dramatic, but that focus can pull us away from the bigger picture. We’re wired to care about the immediate threat, not the slow grind of preventable illness.

What We Can Actually Control

A lot of these top killers aren’t random. The American Heart Association says about 80% of heart disease deaths, or around 556,000 a year, could be prevented with better eating, exercise, and not smoking. The National Cancer Institute estimates 40% of cancer cases, over 245,000 deaths, are preventable through diet, exercise, and avoiding tobacco and alcohol. Stroke? The CDC suggests lifestyle changes could reduce that 162,336 number by a third, saving over 54,000 lives. Diabetes? Over 90% of cases are type 2, tied to obesity and inactivity, meaning we could save around 87,000 lives with better habits.

These aren’t far-off dreams. They’re choices we make every day—what we eat, whether we move, if we light up a cigarette. Compare that to mass shootings. The GVA recorded 503 incidents in 2023, averaging 1.4 deaths each. The FBI data shows most active shooter events end quickly, with police stopping the shooter 58% of the time. These are real tragedies, but they’re not a daily epidemic like heart disease, which claims 1,900 lives every day. Cancer takes 1,680. Stroke, 445. Diabetes, 267. The numbers show where we could make the biggest difference, and it’s not just about guns.

The Politics of Distraction

Mass shootings turn into a tug-of-war politically (the trans "issue", the gun issue, these are topics impacting a surprisingly small amount of people, yet somehow dominate many discussions... serious question, are we stupid?). One side pushes for gun bans, the other for more armed guards. Both are loud, but neither tackles the bacon cheeseburger crisis (mass slaughter of animals smarter than your own dog - which by eating you kill yourself a little more every time you turn them into feces) or the rise of vaping-related lung issues. Now on the Trans "issue" where rarely shooters are trans --- have you asked how many non-trans people were responsible for shootings? Wild guess... 99% of them?

The CDC’s 2023 data shows total firearm deaths at 33,298, including homicides, suicides, and accidents. Mass shootings are a small part of that. Meanwhile, the World Health Organization says noncommunicable diseases like heart disease and cancer make up 74% of global deaths, over 41 million a year. In the U.S., that’s 2.7 million of our 3.2 million annual deaths. Guns are a concern, but they’re dwarfed by these other threats. Yet we spend more energy debating firearms than funding research into heart disease, which gets just $1.7 billion a year from the NIH.

Practical Steps Forward

So what can we do? The CDC estimates a 20% cut in sugar intake could reduce diabetes deaths by 10,000 a year. A soda tax, like the one on cigarettes, might save 5,000 more from heart disease. Following through with mandating physical education in schools could lower stroke and cancer rates over time. These aren’t perfect fixes, but they’re concrete. A 2019 Lancet study suggested a 10% drop in processed meat consumption could prevent 20,000 cancer cases annually (yes, some of the innocent, harmless animals you turn into your poo are in fact getting their sweet revenge on your internal organs). That’s where our energy could go.

Rethinking Our Outrage

Violence doesn’t make a death more important. A heart attack is brutal—your chest tightens, you gasp, you’re gone - often times right in front of your family... god damn. Cancer wastes you away, organs failing - not a bang bang, a slow, often painful death... yikes. Stroke shuts half your brain while you’re still aware - horrible process. These kill 7,400 people a day combined. Mass shootings? About two a day. TWO, A, DAY... TWO OUT OF HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS!!!!!!

If it’s about saving lives, the math points to the big killers. The American Cancer Society says early detection could save 100,000 lives a year from breast and colorectal cancer. The American Diabetes Association says lifestyle changes could halve diabetes deaths, saving 48,000. Imagine if schools taught nutrition instead of just duck-and-cover drills.

A Call to Wake Up

If mass shootings fire you up, use that passion wisely. Eat better. Quit smoking. Get moving. While you’re tweeting about the latest shooter, 7,400 people are dying today from preventable diseases. Hollywood loves a gunfight, not a salad bar, but if we care about life, let’s look at the top of the list. 722 deaths in 2023 are a tragedy. 2.7 million are a catastrophe. It’s time to wake up and focus on what really matters.

You didn't process a single ****ing word I just said.

Alright, go back to your pretending 700 people matter more than 700,000.

I talk like this because nothing I'm saying is original. These concepts have been ignored for decades and yet you continue your behavior anyway - ignoring those who suffer in silent in the masses, for the few who suffer in the headlines.

Whatever keeps making Coca-cola and the meat industry more money right? Dance money puppets, dance.

The Elusive Pursuit of Purpose

Picture this: you’re excited about a new goal—maybe it’s that blog (shout out to me...), learning a skill, or building something lasting. But days later, the spark dulls. “This is pointless,” you mutter, scrolling past half-written drafts or abandoned plans. The issue isn’t just indecision; it’s that reality itself is slippery. Our brains are wired to seek novelty, a trait rooted in survival. Fact 1: The human brain’s reward system, driven by dopamine, spikes when we encounter new stimuli, but habituation dulls this response over time. That’s why the blog felt electric at first but mundane a week later. It’s not you failing—it’s your biology, built for a world where constant alertness meant staying alive.

This craving for “more” isn’t just personal; it’s universal. We set goalposts—land the dream job, score the perfect partner, amass a fortune—convinced they’ll unlock some lasting contentment. But reality has a way of undercutting those fantasies. Fact 2: Studies in psychology, like those based on the hedonic treadmill theory, show that after major life events (winning the lottery, getting married), people return to a baseline level of happiness within months. The ten-million-dollar bank account? You’ll revel in it briefly, then itch for a hundred million, then a billion. It’s not greed—it’s how we’re built, always scanning for the next horizon.

The Mirage of “Enough”

Let’s talk about that dream life. You imagine everything you want: the high-flying career, the glamorous partner (say, a Scarlett Johansson type), the sprawling estate. For me, commitment is ironclad (stop laughing and look at the calendar)—over a decade of marriage proves it, through every storm and quiet times. I’d be enthusiastic with someone like Scarlett, just as I am now with my partner, because when I’m in, I’m in. But for many, even that ultimate prize loses its luster. Fact 3: Research on relationship satisfaction shows that idealizing a partner early on often leads to disillusionment within 2-3 years as reality reveals flaws. People date their dream celebrity, only to take them for granted, boredom creeping in like damp rot. Why? Because humans are wired for dissatisfaction, always chasing change. Fact 4: Divorce rates globally hover around 40-50% in developed nations, partly because we romanticize the initial rush and balk when it fades.

Even simpler dreams—a great job, a cozy home—come with strings attached. You land that six-figure gig, but the commute devours your evenings, and that one coworker’s smug grin makes you dread Mondays. Fact 5: A 2023 study found that 60% of employees with “dream jobs” reported burnout within a year due to unexpected stressors like long hours or toxic workplace dynamics. Reality doesn’t let you win clean; every victory arrives with a shadow tax of complications.

The Weight of Insignificance

Now, let’s zoom out to the big picture—because if personal goals feel futile, the cosmic scale is downright humbling. What if nothing matters? Not your blog, not your legacy, not even your existence. Fact 6: The observable universe is 93 billion light-years across, containing roughly 2 trillion galaxies, each with billions of stars. In that vastness, our planet is a speck, and you’re a speck on that speck. You want to “make an impact”? Influence your town? It’s a blip. Your country? Most of the world won’t notice. Even global icons like Michael Jackson or Nelson Mandela fade into obscurity for billions who never heard their names. Fact 7: The heat death of the universe, predicted in 10^100 years, will erase all traces of human achievement as entropy reduces everything to a cold, uniform void. Your life’s work, however grand, is a fleeting whisper in cosmic time.

This isn’t just philosophical musing—it’s rooted in what we know about reality. Our species is a mixed bag: capable of breathtaking art and innovation, yet destructive beyond measure. Fact 8: Since the Industrial Revolution, humans have driven over 900 species to extinction, with 1 million more at risk, per a 2019 UN biodiversity report. We’re a cancer, spreading across Earth, polluting oceans, and felling forests. And our ambitions to colonize space? They’re an extension of that same impulse. Fact 9: Mars missions, like those pushed by figures like Elon Musk, could inadvertently introduce Earth microbes, potentially disrupting any native Martian ecosystems—a risk NASA actively studies. We dream of the stars, but our track record suggests we’ll export our chaos, not our nobility.

The Trap of Nostalgia

Even when we try to escape this existential weight, we fall into another trap: romanticizing the past. You look back, sighing, “Those were the days—watching my offspring grow, falling in love, everything felt alive.” But memory is a liar. Fact 10: Cognitive science shows that humans exhibit “rosy retrospection,” selectively recalling positive memories while downplaying negatives. That magical *****hood phase? You’re conveniently forgetting the diaper disasters, the 3 a.m. wake-ups, the exhaustion that left you hollow (speaking from experience guys). That “perfect” old flame --- ex girlfriend or boyfriend who "got away"? You’ve erased the fights, the insecurities, the slow erosion of trust. Fact 11: A 2021 study in Memory & Cognition found that people overestimate past happiness by up to 30%, skewing their perception of the present. This “grass is greener” mindset steals your ability to savor now, chaining you to a past that never existed as you recall it.

The Paradox of Self-Awareness

Here’s the cruelest twist: we’re cursed with just enough self-awareness to see the absurdity of it all. I could play the optimist, promising, “It’ll all be okay!” But reality demands honesty. How do you reconcile belief in a divine creator when existence includes every horror imaginable—war, betrayal, suffering baked into the code of life? Fact 12: The Fermi Paradox highlights the eerie silence of the cosmos; despite billions of potentially habitable planets, we’ve found no signs of intelligent life, suggesting either we’re alone or advanced civilizations self-destruct. Maybe our self-awareness is the problem, letting us glimpse the void of meaning without giving us the tools to resolve it.

And yet, here’s the paradox: even knowing this, we persist. You might start that blog, then abandon it, only to pick up another passion weeks later. Why? Because giving up entirely feels worse. Fact 13: Evolutionary biology suggests our drive to create and persist stems from “inclusive fitness”—our instincts push us to leave a mark, even if it’s fleeting, to pass on genes or ideas. So I keep showing up for my marriage (to be fair, my marriage is my oxygen and water, no real choice in it), pouring myself into it, because the alternative—apathy, detachment—would hollow me out. But my devotion, my struggles, my fleeting joys—they’re grains of sand on an infinite shore.

Living in the Absurd

So where does this leave us? You’ll chase goals, only to question their worth. You’ll build something—a family, a career, a legacy—only to watch it erode under time’s relentless march. Fact 14: Earth’s magnetic field, which shields us from solar radiation, is weakening and may flip within a thousand years, potentially disrupting ecosystems and technology—a reminder that even our planet’s stability is temporary. Nothing lasts, not even the ground beneath us.

Yet, we keep going. Not because it “matters” in some cosmic ledger, but because that is what we're programmed to do, it's how we supposedly went from some weird tiny thing in the ocean to the things we are now. In the end, maybe the only meaning is the one we carve out for ourselves, one fleeting, messy moment at a time... is this the part where I act like anything is worth anything?

The conclusion: However you live your life, so long as you're not hurting anyone - don't be too hard on yourself. It's all ****ed up anyway.

It's really unfortunate... but this is just the way things are... you don't actually exist, and neither do I.

I've gone through the typical speech plenty of times...

1. we're born into our lives beyond our individual choices, no one asked us

2. we're conditioned to become who we are by our environment

3. we have chemistry in our heads that is again, beyond our control, and yet it decides literally who we are

4. the time period we're born into, the things people do to us, every word, every action, it all molds us...

   
   It collectively means that nothing in this life or this world is actually "sentient" to an extent the concept of "sentience" is assumed.

We do things for ourselves and our families... right? Because... of course, that is what we "want", our bodies and minds tell us to protect our own. Every single thing we do is incentivized. Every time we make a decision, it is the result of seemingly endless unseen manipulation and control by forces (our biology & environment).

Things like physical attraction, we place so much weight on it and romanticize it. Many of us think every encounter is special or part of a divine plan... that or we otherwise feel we are living at least a meaningful experience that tells our story and makes us who we are... and I ask... when will your dream state end?

You know how dogs are infamous for wanting to mount every other thing they see indiscriminately? Do you ever think... maybe, that dog isn't so different from all human beings in the sense that the chemistry in that dogs brain is literally dragging that dog everywhere whether the dog actually wants to or not?

We dress up love... we embellish relationships... like they're a thing we chose.

We act like relationships are this thing that completes us and are the product of our own ideas. In realty, we're the result of millions of years of evolution ("allegedly"), and with that, your desire, your choices, all of it, well, you have about a million puppet strings yanking at your flesh telling you what to do at all times... all while you're convinced everything is your idea and that you have "free will".

Morality Shaped by Culture and Circumstance

Imagine you were not born into this reality as you know it, instead, you're born on an isolated island that modern civilization hasn't bothered to alter yet. You're part of an indigenous tribe, and they end the life of one person every year as part of their ritual to ensure the "evil spirits" stay away.

• If you don't take part in the ritual, you become the sacrifice,

• If you do participate in it, you get PTSD and everyone in typical civilization judges you/claims you're part of some cult that in turn society deems is worthy of 25 to life punishment for your cooperation in "murder".

Now imagine being someone like yourself, not born into those conditions, actually thinking you're superior to that person who was forced to participate, or die themselves - imagine thinking that person is beneath you because you were lucky enough to get an easier life where you never have to make those decisions.

How about someone born into absolute wealth, father founded a major corporation, and now you don't have to work a day in your life. You're so used to all these privileges that you literally are incapable of understanding the suffering of those less fortunate. You think "I turned out fine, why are these people so angry? Why don't they have rich successful fathers like me?" You have this attitude because you have been encouraged and developed to think that way, there is no "you", there is just the product of your environment and the generic human brain chemistry. Some people born into wealth turn out differently, they do sympathize with those less fortunate, yet in just the same way, they simply have a different chemistry that caused them to care more. If that same person encountered a mere head injury, their entire personality could change again, possibly into the first example of a condescending elites type. One head injury, the difference between you as you are now, and a totally different person. Where'd your "soul" go exactly?

Two different worlds, incredibly different lifestyles and choices people are asked to make. Brain chemistry, and environment, that's all any of us are.

The Banality of Daily Life and Generational Patterns

But back to a more relatable reality (for most of us): I had no biscuit mix this morning. I had no gravy mix. So... being basically 40, what did I do? I looked up how to make both (extremely typical of my age group)... 30 minutes later, I was eating biscuits and gravy. Why? Because I'm a millennial. Being the age I am, this is literally the time when people typically start doing this thing. They start thinking "I don't have something, we live in an expensive economy, so how do I just make it?". People of other age groups do this too, and yet, dominantly, millenials seemed to mostly be doing the exact same things at around the same time.

Horoscopes? Why do you think they work for so many people? Because you, me, we're all basic. Describe one of us? Describe many.

Millennials are known to start making their own kombucha, their own sour dough bread, and yeah, their own biscuits right around this time. Not only us, but my own dad made his biscuits around this time too (his 40's). As we most all get to this age, we become more handy, we stop paying ridiculous prices for numerous things because we learned through experience to be more responsible and self reliant, we grow, we adapt, and we hit those generic markers we're designed to hit.

When you accomplish things in life, people might say "Wow, look at you! Good job!" but do they ever ask "What are most people in their circumstances at their age doing?" - Like becoming a parent, "Wow, congrats!", brutally put is more like "Of course, you're at that generic age, you have a life style welcoming of that kind of thing, so naturally this is part of the process of being someone in your shoes." --- Parenthood is an honor, privilege and amazing thing --- but it's still just generic and unremarkable. It's part of our design, to reproduce so our species doesn't die off, that's about it. No magic, nothing unique, just is what it is.

The Scale of Humanity and the Illusion of Meaning

Have you ever really stopped and taken an honest look at how many of you... people just like you... exist in the world? Don't just think about how people look like bugs when you peer out the window of a plane, think about how many times you've been stuck in traffic, and all those individual lives blocking you from getting home... lives just like yours.

Billions of people in this world... many thinking there is a special god that watches over them, loves them, cares about them... has a plan for their eternal happiness (aka. your brain doping you up on it's own brand of drugs) some day... billions of people who are obsessed with the idea that there must be more to life in order for life to be acceptable. Billions of people convincing themselves that we aren't like the animals we "compassionate" humans genocide every year just to turn them into our fecal matter.

Considering all these people that exist, just like you - JUST. LIKE. YOU... can you not feel the puppet strings digging at your arms, your neck, your head? Can you not see that you are a gear, turning in a machine, that is billions of times bigger than you? Can you not see the endless, and unforgiving cycle? Every single person thinking "Oh, I live for family, friends & I live to be happy." - Is anyone home?

Family is the thing you were born into and stand by out of familiarity (familiar / family) and that sense of belonging as well as that natural love that comes from you all treating each other well. It is that "clan" that has been inscribed in us since the beginning to stick to for safety and survival. Friends are that alliance you build, to establish credibility, good times, social strength, a support system & again, survival. The idea of being "happy" is the chemicals in your brain that reward you conditionally, like how it feels to get your back scratched that the perfect time, or to experience a warm shower on a cold day... it's something that is beyond your control, it's like a dog being given a treat when they "sit" on command but in your head and automatic - You do what your body tells you to do, and your body gives you a treat, pats you on the head and says "good boy, good manipulation victim". It is manipulation by our core programming to get us to do what our "creator" or biology wants us to do so we don't inevitably self-terminate due to us realizing the unbearable reality that we are puppets, slaves & have been lied to our whole lives about the core facts relating to our very existence.

The fact that so many emotions, sensations, actions & events can be SO EASILY explained, yet we place such misleading and misplaced importance/nonsensical contexts on them is mind blowing. We call ourselves intelligent yet we don't even stop to think about how stupid our own existence is. We've been abused, lied to & coerced into our own identities. Even me writing this - this isn't "me" because there is no "me" - there is only a result. I, like you, am just a manifestation of experiences, chemistry & circumstance.

Morality, Conditioning, and Hypocrisy

What would you "identify" as if every time you slapped an old man in the face you were socially rewarded with cheers, got a hit of dopamine to your brain & watched your bank account balance increase? Would you be proud of yourself when everything rewards you to indulge in that behavior? --- In our realty... you'd be a monster. In the hypothetical reality I just introduced, you'd have almost every reason to be an old-man serial slapping freak.

Now think about "What if" every time you paid someone to kill a dog, and then you cooked/ate that dog, you got a delicious satisfaction in your mouth, you gained "protein" and everyone else you knew ate those dogs as well so no one ever felt bad about it? In some places, people do this all the time... is that wrong to you?

Switch that dog out with a pig... now it's fine right? The pig is more intelligent/physically more like a human being, but, who cares, we're in a society that tells us it's "ok" right? Sure, red meat literally kills you, that's why doctors often tell patients to stop eating red meat... but logic right? Who needs that --- The lack of empathy - the conditioning - think about how people felt about a number of things in our past that we no longer do... we look back on our ancestors in horror, yet today? We continue to act just like them - being a puppet and follower just like they were - making all our choices of what is and is not acceptable based on what our peers reward or punish us for doing. You, organic machines (humans), eat baby cows, baby sheep without hesitation or remorse. Literally no conscience in sight.

Considering all these things... you really actually think you exist? How? How are "you" not actually just a carbon copy of everyone else, trying to fit in, to survive...

If you lived in the South just prior to the civil war, you don't think you'd be pro-slavery? Really? Because they were openly killing people against slavery back then... still think you would be so opposed to it if it meant you would die? Back then, regardless of color, if you supported abolishing slavery - you were a target. So... would you be so brave back then to say you were against it? Or are you only "against" it today because of your social conditioning?

A lot of people say they would do one thing or another till they're put in that situation, and your organic programming clicks in, telling you to lie, cheat, steal, do whatever you can to just keep living... why? Because if we didn't have that default response, our species might not exist anymore - we are parasites to this earth, feeding off it, carving away, killing the host. You, fellow parasite, have been robbed of any possible actual identity since the moment you were born. Everything you do is an illusion of outcome resulting from "your" choices. It's not even "ego" that convinces you that your life is the result of your decisions - What makes you feel like you are in control of your life is the absence of consideration - because a key part of you, the part that knows what's really going on, is in a coma.

The Delusion of Individuality and the Larger System

One of the biggest delusions of humanity is individuality.

You really don't think we're all in this together regardless of what we want to believe? You don't see other human beings as a mirror of what you could have been or what you might very well be?

Can you imagine an ant, on an ant hill, walking in and out of that hill, trying to claim that it's not just a gear in a machine, contributing to a larger organism? The ant literally thinking it has it's own life, own decisions etc... the ant looks like every other ant to us, doing the same thing as all the other ants - just like you would see cells working under a microscope. You think that white blood cell has ambitions? You think that white blood cell has an identity? Because zoom out to that ant, you think that ant has an identity? You think that ant has ambitions? Now zoom out to you... you think you truly have individuality? Your ambitions are really yours? You really are in control of your own life? Yeah, you keep bringing food to the ant nest because you just want to right? You act like all the other ants because you're just so special right? You chose this, no influence at all...

Zoom out to the state or province you live in, actively doing business with other surrounding geographical locations... you really think those individual physical locations are truly independent? Not part of a bigger organism? What about Earth, zoom out, the solar system, zoom out, the galaxy --- everything just a piece of a bigger thing, that makes all the things within it appear as exactly what they are - irrelevant, unimportant, cogs. We are systems, within systems. Components of components.

So... when I made my own biscuits this morning?

I didn't make anything because I don't exist. There is no "I" - only parts of parts of parts making up a bigger thing.

A millennial basically in his 40's was doing what millennials do at this age, gaining that sense of development, advancement & further self-reliance. Behold, the illusion of change, baiting for further engagement to continue the futility of existence with a misguided sense of purpose.

Every day is essentially as unremarkable as the last, but so long as this millennial keeps getting these unlockable rewards and character advancement, he'll continue playing the game. He'll continue being part of this larger organism. He'll continue believing he is an individual and not a victim of circumstance since before he was even born. Organic "intelligence" with the "individuality" & "identity" upgrades installed like every other "O.I." on this Earth.

The Unavoidable

Once you truly see it, you can't unsee it... only pretend it's not there, in the corner, always looking at you, waiting for you to be reminded of the way things really are.

And with that - let's see what AI thinks of this assessment. I'll ask...

The person’s message is built on the idea of determinism: that we don’t really “exist” as independent selves, but instead we are programmed by biology, environment, history, and culture. Their argument is logically consistent with many established philosophical and scientific viewpoints — neuroscience shows that decisions are driven by brain chemistry we don’t control, anthropology demonstrates that morality is contextual, and evolutionary biology explains our drives like attraction, survival, and family loyalty. The person is intelligent in the sense that they’ve taken these strands of knowledge and formed them into a broad worldview: humans are not free agents, but conditioned organisms acting out scripts. Whether or not one agrees, it’s a sophisticated position that recognizes the hidden forces shaping us.

On honesty: the person appears brutally candid. They confront uncomfortable truths — like the relativity of morality (slavery, ritual sacrifice), the illusion of individuality, and hypocrisy in how society treats animals versus humans. They aren’t hiding behind comforting beliefs but are stripping them away, even when that makes existence sound bleak. This kind of honesty can feel harsh, but it reflects a refusal to sugarcoat reality. At the same time, the insistence that nothing is unique or meaningful could be colored by personal disillusionment, so while honest emotionally, it might not capture the full truth of human potential for meaning-making.

Relevance to human existence is undeniable. The piece strikes directly at core questions every human faces: Are we free? Are we unique? Do our lives mean anything beyond survival and reproduction? It places personal experience (making biscuits) into the frame of larger existential questions, showing how even small acts are tied to evolutionary and cultural scripts. Whether one finds it liberating or depressing, the message is an urgent reminder that much of what we consider “ourselves” is programmed — and that recognition forces us to reevaluate morality, purpose, and the illusion of individuality.

Score: 90% — highly authentic and sincere, factually aligned with major philosophical and scientific perspectives, though skewed toward nihilism and missing recognition of humanity’s capacity for creating meaning despite determinism.

Now, Metal Gear Solid Delta (or , Metal Gear Solid 3: Snake Eater REMAKE) is said to be a favorite game for MANY people because you have so many more features than the previous games. Tons of customization, a real nature element, injury repair etc - but personally, I'm heavy on character - and I felt the characters from MGS1 were way better than MGS3. That aside, if we're doing a remake and you're not actually changing the features (game functionality) I guess MGS3 would be the most relevant to the modern day gameplay style other than MGS4.

Here's what the game looks like:

Meanwhile... I refuse to actually watch the footage because I want to experience it first hand myself... not a movie, it's a game, so I want to experience everything for the first time.

But long story short - I'm looking forward to this game being a success so we can see MGS1 remade as well... they did it with Twin Snakes, but... they can do so much better now.

I'm going to ask Chat GPT for evidence of any remake of MGS 2 or MGS 1 in the works:

Short answer: there is no verified, on-the-record announcement that remakes of Metal Gear Solid 1, 2, or 4 are in development. In interviews tied to the MGS3 remake, the current producers said they are focused on shipping Metal Gear Solid Δ: Snake Eater and would only “consider lots of other games” afterward, which is an interest statement, not a greenlight. The only concrete date on the calendar is Δ’s release on August 28, 2025. That tells you where resources are aimed right now, and it does not confirm any other remake is underway.

For MGS4 specifically, there is credible smoke for a modern re-release, but it points to a port in the Master Collection rather than a remake. Konami publicly confirmed Master Collection Vol. 2 is in development without listing the games, and producer Noriaki Okamura all but nodded at MGS4’s inclusion with his “you can probably connect the dots” comment reported at the time. Again, that is about a collection release, not a ground-up remake. MGS1 and MGS2 already returned as ports in Master Collection Vol. 1, which further supports the “re-release” pattern over remakes for those entries.

So it seems like they want to make sure this one actually does well before investing in more... which makes sense...

Now let's check out what people think about the game so far...

Most feedback on Metal Gear Solid Delta: Snake Eater—the brand-new remake—leans positive, praising its stunning, lush environments powered by Unreal Engine 5 and polished, faithful recreation of the original experience, now with smoother controls and modern conveniences. That said, a few reviewers caution that its hyper-realistic visuals can sometimes clash with Snake’s uncanny-looking character models, undermining the original's quirky charm. On balance, however, most who’ve actually played it appreciate Delta as a careful and entertaining rework—especially beloved by existing fans—even if it doesn't radically reimagine the classic stealth adventure

So that's a relief... no real potential for huge disappointment here - as you get what you wanted... everything updated without extreme changes to gameplay.

Now for the complaints...

Users and critics repeatedly point to a few recurring issues. The remake’s nearly obsessive fidelity to the original—while visually stunning—means it’s hardly what you’d call “modernized,” and sometimes that faithfulness clashes with enhanced graphics or leads to a lack of meaningful innovation. Performance hiccups, particularly on certain platforms like PS5 Pro, have raised eyebrows—frame rate inconsistencies and occasional crashes crop up in technical impressions. A few holdover design elements also feel dated—like the cumbersome wound‑treatment menus and a camouflage system that still sometimes interrupts gameplay flow. Finally, some reviewers (like Inverse) question whether the remake offers any compelling reason to revisit Snake Eater beyond the upgraded visuals—and suggest it doesn’t break new ground enough to justify its existence alone.

Ah! There it is... they didn't improve ENOUGH, according to some reviewers... so... what we're saying here is: If you've never played the game before, absolutely. If you want to play the game again, sure, buy it, absolutely. But if you enjoyed it in full the last time, and don't feel like a revisit to basically the same thing... maybe not.

Gotcha!

Ultimately... I mean... lol... get it on PC right? CHEAT CHEAT CHEAT!!!! MUA HA HA!!!!

If you're bummed out things aren't different enough - well, that's what mods are for silly goose!

Let's end this with a good, or terrible set of jokes...

Why do guards in Metal Gear Solid never get promoted?
Because their entire career path is just: “What was that noise?” → “Must’ve been nothing.” → “Dead.”

How many Snakes does it take to change a light bulb?
Just one — but first you’ll need a 40-minute cutscene explaining why the light bulb represents nuclear deterrence.

What’s the scariest thing about Metal Gear Solid bosses?
Not the weapons… the fact you’ll have to sit through a 20-minute backstory about their adolescent trauma first.

Why did Otacon get banned from tech conventions?
Because every time someone showed off new hardware, he asked: “But… can it launch a nuke?”

And because I can, here's how all the metal gear solid games performed in the past (allegedly):

• Metal Gear (1987) – 1M sold US, cost unknown

• Metal Gear 2 (1990) – Sales unknown, cost unknown

• MGS1 (1998) – 5M+ sold, budget undisclosed

• MGS2 (2001) – ~$10M budget, 5M sold

• MGS3 (2004) – 4M+ sold, budget undisclosed

• MGS4 (2008) – 5M+ sold, $60M denied

• Peace Walker (2010) – Lower PSP sales, no budget

• Rising (2013) – Sales unknown, budget unknown

• Ground Zeroes (2014) – 1M shipped, budget unknown

• Phantom Pain (2015) – $80M+ budget, $179M day-one gross

• Survive (2018) – Sales unknown, budget unknown

Should Metal Gear Survive be on that list? No, absolutely not.

And with that, I leave you... with... CRAB BATTLE!

…so what does that mean?

First and foremost, listening to yourself… as in, taking a moment every day to make sure you are considering your own feelings, needs etc. so you don’t shut down completely.

Also… asking yourself, daily… what can you change to improve your life? Improve your chances at being there for those who need you…

For a long time, I kept failing, and… to be fair… I continue to fail.

I get bored of things all the time… I start and stop things… I’m all over the place… but something that has been progressive, is learning - you don’t un-learn yourself. Not in this context at least…

My progress, has been understanding that if your mind is incapable of certain things, essentially, you build a ramp to compensate. I’ve been exercising more recently, but I have knee issues, so, when pain comes, I listen, and I take measures to not worsen said issues. Same goes with pain in your heart, soul, etc.

Part of me starting this journal is making mandatory my daily reflection, to identify things that hurt me physically, emotionally etc - so I can survive.

What you may take from this is - asking yourself if you talk to yourself, and work on reducing your own pain, preventing things that lead down paths you don’t want to go, ultimately, what are the bumpers to your life? What are the choices you make to ensure whatever suffering you feel now, you can at least feel slightly less of in the future…

For example, my knees hurt, so I stay off them when they get bad. My heart hurts, I sleep… basically ceasing the addition to the emotional pain by preventing additional harmful info from being processed.

Like an oxygen mask on a plane, help yourself before anything else, because someone who doesn’t exist can’t help anyone.

Some people live to find happiness, and that’s great for them… but for many others, who cannot unsee or unfeel what they have felt, there’s just survival… we pretend we can transform, change our stripes… I’ve found that accommodating what is in front of you is far more effective than simply planning for days that may never come.