the bbc's planet earth is responsible for the deep funk i find myself in. specifically, it is the penguins' fault.
pondering the meaning of life i come across the penguins: they are cute and their lives are unbelievably harsh. they live in a shitty climate, have young, their young continue to live in a shitty climate, they have young, their young also live in a shitty climate and so on. the point being? well, just to make more penguins apparently.
so by stepping outside the true meaning of life (make more humans), by denying my procreative nature (physically, not psychologically speaking), i am losing the one meaning life has: to make more life.
sigh. if i believed in god i would have some meaning to scrape off the dried plate of my existence. if i wanted children, ditto. as it is, i sit here now and think to myself that there is very little point.
coincidentally, mister monkey is also going through an existential crisis. is this a philosophical mid-life crisis? should we buy a corvette? have an affair with a dumb hot young thang? or start tanning and wearing heavy gold chains?