I don’t like your writing because you are a dumbass.
Thanks,
I DON’T CARE IF YOU USE MY NAME
DEAR I-DON’T-CARE:
Let’s go back in time. Now, of course, I don’t know your personal story, but let’s be theoretical here. Pretend your mother and father just met two minutes ago. The circumstances that brought them together don’t matter. Your parents probably feel something for each other. This feeling is something I want to talk about. A feeling that gets stronger with each heartbeat. A warm, happy, thick, dripping, hot feeling. Scientists might call it “energy.” We common folk call it “love.”
Whatever you call it, it is an intelligent thing, programmed into the body. A force greater than even your parents. So one day, inside the dark and hushed womb of your mother, a fertilized embryo floats the white-water rapids of her insides. That loveable little egg manages to attach itself to a uterine wall.
Then, the Little Egg That Could, starts producing NEW CELLS. Each cell the SAME SIZE as its original zygote. And this eventually becomes you.
I know. This is almost too boring to stand. And to tell you the truth, I know about as much about science as a blind mule on a field trip to Dollywood.
So let’s use simple language here:
One small act of love made YOUR cells appear out of NOWHERE. In other-other words: you’re a miracle. And it was love-energy that made you.
You are a walking talking collection of organs, a central nervous system, a conscience, and a receding hairline. Because of love. You are a soul, and souls can be all sorts of things. They can be thoughtful, hardworking, ambitious, easygoing, understanding, kind, and certain souls are even lucky enough to be born as Cradle Episcopalians. Souls have the power to be good, or not-so-good. Nice, or hateful. But as we just discovered, hatefulness goes against your very anatomy. Every cell in your human corpus is made with love. Every last drop of hydrogen, oxygen, carbon, calcium, phosphorus, and interstitial fluid. Love. Love. And more love. You sir, are a steaming pile of love. The love that made you is in your DNA. That’s not an opinion, it’s biology 101, pal. You carry an entire ancestry of love inside your nucleotides. Don’t believe me? Look at your ancestors throughout history. Their offspring survived droughts, floods, flu, starvation, civil wars, hurricanes, tornadoes, disease, and The Lawrence Welk Show.
Something strong held their ancestry together. Some kind of glue. The same thing that holds this soil together. The same thing that caused your daddy to fall in love with your mother. The same power inside every corpuscle of your body. Now let’s talk about me for a second. I am many things. I’m a man. I’m a Crimson Tide fan. I’m a redhead. I’m a nucleic acid sequence encoded as chromosome pairs, wrapped in a mitochondria. But you can call me Sean. I am the result of John and Janice Sue, who fell in love too young. Whose parents wouldn’t allow them to marry. My father crawled on steel buildings. My mother worked hard hours. Doctors told my mother she couldn’t get pregnant, but she did. And one winter night at 10:06 P.M. I was born. The same love that made you, made me. Thus, I am not a dumbass. And neither are you. We are sophisticated products of explosive energy that peppers the pea-picking universe. We are miracles of love. So, by God, we ought to act that way.
Thanks for the letter.
Author: SWal Life
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