I felt bad when Wendy was found. I knew that I would not feel the same again about my school or friends or the place I lived. The whole world. And I felt sad about her body. Which was like my body. Being able to devote myself to the study of Bruce and his friends made me feel better because I was doing something. Because it was a rational thing to do, to consider my ethical obligations.
It would hardly be rational to accept that I live inside a thing made of flesh that people capture, hide, and then wait in line to rape.”
Because of course it’s nothingness that awaits us. Of course it is. If it weren’t, why would our hearts keep pumping any longer than they had to? Why wouldn’t we all emerge into the world, pure and innocent, and then, before we had a chance to get into any trouble—before we even had a chance to take our first, oily shit—just immediately shut down our systems and head straight to the hereafter? If there were a better life after death, why bother getting fitter for survival’s sake? Why would evolution even be a thing? Why fight for something second best? If death was really awesome, in a life-or-death situation, our bodies wouldn’t muscle up with epinephrine and cortisol, our brains would hit us up instead with sloppy sleepy happy love. Hannibal Lector would be our Mickey Mouse.
No. There’s fuck-all to look forward to. Our bodies undersatnd this. The real problem is, it’s unbearable to know this.
So we cope. We fashion faith and magic and online personality tests, orthopedic inserts for the five-inch stiletto heel that is mortality. And you know what: We’re good at it—we’re really fucking good at coping.”