An Objective Lesson
by Rev. Tribunal Overdrive

It’s often said among the Church elite that the most merciful thing that could happen to the Normals would result if we allowed them to starve. Even non-Church pundits have asserted strikingly similar doctrines, to the effect that to kill these cripples would be doing them a favor. Well, I had an experience the other day that drove home this point.

It began while I was at work, reading the newly issued “Book”, by “Bob”. I felt a nagging sort of uneasiness that lasted quite a while. I noticed, and noted, a number of specific sensations; among them, a mental analogue of the irritating feeling one gets during a bout of the flu, when, late at night and lying on one side, one breathes through only one nostril since the other is all plugged up. Another was the definite sensation that one eye was asleep, or something, as if everything was one-dimensional, as if one of my two main personalities had just gone into a coma or something.

That was it! I felt undimensional, flat, and vague. “There’s only one person here!” I thought, and it hit me like a slap of cold water. I decided that I must be unconscious, and that this is what it must be like to be a normal person; sort of tired and bored with everything. I noticed that there was no “internal monologue” at all, and since I usually have three going on at once, I wondered what had happened.

A wave of panic swept over me as I did my exercises to try to “wake up” again, to re-activate the feedback loop, to come back to consciousness. Nothing helped and the night wore on while I catalogued more and more disturbing symptoms of Normalcy in myself.

Among them, I noticed a general tone, a mode, that swept in and out subtly, like a subtext from The Twilight Zone: the feeling that I was on automatic pilot, that if I didn’t think about it I’d know what to do next. Immediately I began thinking about what I should do next, and as if by magic, I lost all sense of priority. I felt lost, absurd, naked. Every possible act was equally valuable, and hence equally valueless. It was terrifying. I decided quickly not to reflect on metaphysical matters, hoping not to imprint my new program with any of the implied steps that this state of unconsciousness would articulate for me, but in a flash the whole cascading mess of possible boredoms flooded my thoughts, and I cared not one whit for any of the formerly glistening dialectics and contradictions that only yesterday had fascinated me.

Truly something was wrong. I thought for a moment, trying to figure out where the sleep had begun. I had been listening to the Talking Heads when I jerked off earlier that evening, looking at drawings in Heavy Metal magazine. Perhaps, I wondered, perhaps subliminals are more effective in times like those?

Then it struck me that if this was true, I’d have to find a dealer sometime soon and take a large dose of LSD to wash out all the programs and start over again. What a bother! I’d also have to swear off Eno and his ilk, which would be tiresome.

But wait! Drugs! I remembered that I had taken some downs just a few hours ago! No wonder I couldn’t remember my name! I started laughing at the simplicity of it, and one of my co-workers gave me an odd look.

“Probably unconscious,” I thought. “The best thing for those types of people would be some good ole eternal sleep.”

Anyway, it relieved me to think that after a good night’s rest, I’d be back to super-normal. The plunge into dull consciousness had been a sharp reminder of the abyss between myself and other people, and proved to me that for most people, life isn’t worth living. Odd, how a drug intended to induce calm had caused me such fear and doubt; stranger still how calm I get when I take too much speed, Ah, well. Vote for me; there’s work to be done.

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