Whatever happens inside these scrunched, wrinkled fiber-bags of rotten-fruit-colored chopped hollow jumbo spaghetti bits is an accident of liquid physics. Our sentimentality is a coincidence. We are no smooth earnest factories; we are no diagram-perfect assembly lines. We are crowded hard bags of accidents down through which blood and other juices leak; we squeeze and our liquids spurt and rise. We must know the stupidity of this meat and we must permit it to terrify us. We must be afraid of this deadness. We must love each other. It is ridiculous if we do not.
Bringing up a conversation topic for the sole purpose of declaring your disinterest in it is, in a word, sick. Imagine a person walking down a sidewalk toward you. This person has earbuds in their ears. They are not looking at you. You stand in front of them. You hold your hands out. They stop in front of you. You hold up your hands. You mime earbud-removal. The person takes their earbuds out. They have a look of puzzlement. They’re about to say “Can I help you?” and you cut them off. “Excuse me — please don’t tell me your name. I don’t want to know your name. I never want to talk to you. I will never talk to you. Goodbye.” Then you walk away. Would you do this? Don’t lie to me. You wouldn’t do this. What kind of person would do this? The kind of person who would do this would probably also, given the existence of a tricksy genie, press a Big Red Button that erases human history. That’s not you, is it?