Diary,
In a lifetime of being single, and attending a string of one bad date after another, I’ve been the victim of many censorious labels. From selfish to egotistic to a hater of the human race, I’ve heard it all. Why a hater of humanity?
“The primary goal of any species is self-propagation,” one of my dates once shared. “If we can’t reproduce, we’re dead as a species. You know what? That’s probably what killed the dinosaurs and not some hyped meteor.”
“Asteroid,” I said.
“What?”
“An asteroid killed the dinosaurs, not a meteor. A meteor evaporates as soon as it enters Earth’s atmos—”
“Pshaw! Whatever. That’s not the point. The point is, one dude T-rex decided he was too good for T-rex dudettes, and BOOM! An entire population is wiped out.”
“Maybe it was impossible to make out with such small arms, you think?”
“You’re just a child with a baby moustache,” she said before storming off mid-dinner. Suffice it to say there was no second date.
But the truth is, I don’t hate humanity. Not all of it, for sure. I’ve met some good humans, just not good enough to convince me to shack up with them.
Also, the truth is, I’m a hedonist at heart. And not in the way the term is applied in “everyday use,” linking the term to the egoistic pursuit of short-term gratification by indulging in sensory pleasures without regard for the consequences.
I’m a hedonist in the strict philosophical meaning of the term. Simply put, human behaviour is determined by desires to increase pleasure and to decrease pain.
Think about it. Everything you do is either geared towards eliciting pleasure or avoiding pain. That’s why you have a favourite food and avoid getting hit by the bus. The reason you crave that promotion so badly. You see?
You and I aren’t that different after all. To me, being shackled to one person for life is worse than being hit by a bus. It’s like being hit by a bus, tossed under an oncoming trailer, and somehow ending up crucified on high-voltage electric wires. And I must avoid that to be happy.
“Nah!” One of my date’s eyes almost rolled all the way to her nape upon hearing me offer this theory. “Happiness is overrated.”
“What?” I nearly choked on a morsel of overpriced Caribbean crab as it hit me that I hadn’t seen her smile once since we got to the bistro.
“It all seems so fake, don’t you think? All the grinning and prancing and pretending we’re all not a bad choice away from a horrible painful death.” She leaned closer across the table. “Want to know how you will die, doctor? I could tell you.”
It was my turn to storm out mid-dinner.
