ISSUE 77

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 Welcome to Unconscious Living, people who excel at being inept and lazy. Even when we try, it’s awful, like witnessing two teenagers on a date or someone falling into the bear exhibit at the zoo. It is always better for us to not be involved. In a world of eco-consciousness and mindfulness, we are the ones who get stuck in the elevator with the out-of-order sign on it, and the whole fire department has to come rescue us. 
 Unconscious Living is the philosophy of dead people and applied to people who are alive. In a world intent on value, one that brings exciting, innovative ideas to the table, we scrounge in our pockets for lint, candy wrappers, and the remains of a receipt that went through the wash.
 People are stuck with us on projects at work or school, and the only thing they can think of is how to contain the carnage, as if we are a manic-depressive Godzilla that drops its purse in Manhattan and spends forty-five minutes whipping its tail through skyscrapers while finding everything. Given a task like stapling two things together, we staple it in the middle and leave everyone to deal with the consequences.
 In a zombie apocalypse, we would be the first to go, seeing as when presented the choice to run or have our brain ripped out by a fleshless mutant, we choose not running. On the chance we do survive—and it’s a far greater chance than you would ever think possible—others become responsible for us, like caring for an entitled cat who can’t be bothered to feed herself. And they think, Maybe, we should just abandon her somewhere.   
 Understand that existence is hard when our lethargy has actually outweighed our survival instinct. We only go to the grocery store when all we have for dinner is some red popsicle glop in the back of the freezer and something that used to be Chinese takeout. Basically, Domino’s easy-order app is the only thing keeping us alive.
 Morning is a time to accept that today is just too hard of a day to try. We fling open the closet, jab our arm in the depths, and pull out something akin to a murder. Despite living in a first-world country, we still look like someone who has to walk five miles to get fresh water. Like, if we went back in time, we would blend into a group of pre-Homo sapiens, the ones stuck between throwing rocks at each other and making shitty buffalo drawings.
 Our acquaintances—capitalizing on having the equivalent of a peanut butter sandwich for a relation—recommend us to reality shows so others can think, Well, at least I can put my underwear right. Yet, we sign up unaware and think, This is awesome. I’m on TV. Everyone loves me for being true to myself. We are as innocent as a guy who goes to Chicago’s South Side, yells a racial slur, and is surprised when he is not given the respect and dignity he deserves.
 If you don’t join movements because they sound way too energetic, then you may be interested in Unconscious Living. Our thing is more oozing than moving. We don’t go places. We leach, like spilled liquid detergent under the sink or snot that someone refuses to wipe with a Kleenex.
 Unconscious get-togethers involve lying down and complaining about things we don’t understand. We hold radically different standards for ourselves as compared to others, which means that everyone is late to meetings and everyone is mad at everyone else for being late.
 Our life is one long wander through a busy airport concourse, unaware our flight left yesterday. We look around with the naivety of a squirrel whose cuteness is outweighed only by its stupidity. We bypass every helpful sign and airport official, get in everyone else’s way, complain, and eventually accept that this is how life is.  
 Basically, some are attentive of how their actions and words affect other people. We are not. We occupy space, suck up precious oxygen, and expel waste. The earth is our dumpster while the Internet is our toilet. Sweatpants are a life philosophy. For all intents and purposes, someone pulled out the electrical cord of our brain and left us on the office desk—not particularly useful, stubborn, collecting dust, and occasionally deleting hours of hard work when someone has hope in us.
   
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