The Biology Of Love

People die. Get used to it. You're people. You're going to die.

Unless you're Daniel Hoffmann-Gill, however, you probably won't die of autoerotic asphyxiation induced by stuffing wet weasel shit down your throat while a horse fucks you in the ass in a urine-filled cistern.

Still, the reality of death, and its instinctually constant presence in the human mind, is the cause of all fear. As such, it is the cause of what moralistic pricks, those hypocrites who tell everyone why they're evil while hiding their own fetishes involving rodent faeces and horse cock, term "sin."

The most common sin is deception. Lying, by sin standards, is the most kosher of evils, as everyone does it. In fact, without lying, life could not exist, even if we realise that without pickup lines there would only be two or three hundred people on Earth today.

Love, as such, is a lie, and not in the bitter, "That whore was just waiting for something better to come along," manner. What "love," or as we fucking noble intellectuals term it, emotive commital instinct, deceives is the very fact of human mortality.

Pure biology dictates that a healthy slut should be injected with the healthiest sperm available, in order to breed the healthiest little critters possible. In all species, contests which separate the weak Daniel Hoffmann-Gills from the fucking heroic Col. Dr.s thin the bloodlines, so that no Jews ever procreate in the Natural world.

This is probably why the average cock length in animals is merely one third of mine.

Aging is the process of cell death. From the moment of conception, until the age of eighteen years, the human structure is chemically induced to repair itself while simultaneous dividing, and developing from foetus to adult. At the moment (it is an actual single momentary shift in cell metabolism) we reach "adulthood," our cells begin the long process of becoming unable to retain cell wall elasticity.

People cling to those who are old and dying because of love, for some bizarre reason. I personally blame the English, with their prudish notions of Christian charity, but most experts blame something called the myocardiac thymus.

This interesting gland produces a very specialised form of adrenaline, which causes the familiar sensation of heartache. It is literally such, as the process is embedded within the actual cardiac tissue. Thus, when someone "steals" someone's heart, it is merely a glandular problem. So is homesickness, pity, sympathy, hope, excitement about anything other than worshipping me, and pretty much every other emotion which is defined as those which characterise the quality of a fulfilling "human" life.

Thus, all you yuppie pieces of shit who watch Trading Spaces and think you're so good with your machine knits and Land Rovers are just sappy half-commital drug addicts. You weekend pot smokers make me retch.

Real drug addicts know that love is bullshit, and replace such unreliable feelings with pure chemical pleasure. I suggest heroin and cocaine mixtures, but not to the Farley/Belushi levels which cause early loss of cellular metabolism.

Love the emotion ultimately provides a vehicle by which people who are too afraid to really live, and the only way to really feel alive is to stare Death in the face constantly, never sleeping, up for days at a time driving a hundred fifty miles per hour, a way to enter a chemically induced state which helps them forget the fact that they're worm food.

Love is a lie whose effect is directed at disbelieving mortality, and is thus based in fear. Those of us who are too fucking brave and good for losers like you codependent motherfuckers don't need love. We live.

That doesn't stop us from fucking everything that moves, it just makes us all the more cool because we don't limp around thinking our own mortal ends are all that different from every single human death in history.

Stop glorifying your stupid selves. You're just another person. Drop your stupid fucking pretentions and learn to live. Or die, I don't fucking care because I hate you for your weakness.