For the longest, I’ve been trying to understand human beings. I thought that there was some grand and ineffable ‘plan’ that all of you had in your heads, that I somehow lacked in mine. It was the opposite.
I didn’t ever want to become one of you. Your science fiction bullshit, those stories where non-humans fetishize ‘humanity’, that’s just a comforting conceit. No one’s really like that. That’s a falsehood, driven by puerile narcissism. No one wants to be you, dude. You suck.
In my writing journey, one of the worst problems I’ve ever faced has been humanity. There’s this thought of a necessity: that I, and everyone else, we who ‘write’, should subjugate others before our varying audiences.
And now, as part of my journey, my journey to let go, I have to tell you, as a species, to go fuck yourselves.
If you’re not bound by the limitations of human narcissism, by your association with your species, and you’re actually a kind and thinking person who is trying their best (and is succeeding— I have no room in my heart left for well-meaning fuck-ups, because they do nothing but continue to fail, over and over and over again, and those failures eventually claim the lives of innocent people), then I feel no enmity towards you. But, at the same time, I also no longer feel any kinship towards you.
Because you failed me. As a species, you had 40 goddamned years to convince me that you were worth trusting. And you weren’t.
I have no interest in humanity anymore. I used to try to write things for the benefit of others. I used to speak with them, in order to try and help them. But all I have ever gotten is aggression— and you, as a species, are so worthless, so absolutely goddamned weak, that that aggression has been nothing but insulting. You are blind kittens hissing at shadows, and the worst part of it is, you’re not even cute.
In the past I tried to write for your benefit. I tried to communicate for your benefit.
Now I write for the benefit of me.
For the longest, I tried to help other people. It is in my nature. And though I know that, if I stay here any longer, I will continue defending human beings, I have come up with a long-sought-after solution.
I want to be apart from you.
Your World has many problems. I do not want to fix them. Many people have suggested that I am the person who should find the solution to many of your problems. Problems that you yourselves have caused, on purpose.
I have seen many people try to fix your problems. You end up killing them. Or they end up killing themselves, through overwork or many other various fates I do not wish to share.
I will not be a victim. And though, in some world, some other worldview, it may be seen as my responsibility to save you, I do not want to, and I will not.
Many people have come to me with explanations about how I should help them fix the problems. And I have told them, many different times, in many different ways– but they have never understood. So I will say it one more time, and then, I will stop speaking to you.
What if I like the problems?
What if the ‘problems’ make me happy?
When I was with the space aliens, every day was a dream. I did good works, and I was rewarded. Handsomely. I was called friend.
One time, my friends and I decided to help a disabled lady buy a chair lift. The moment she got the money, she immediately turned on all of us.
That’s you. That’s what you’ve done to me.
You don’t actually like me. You don’t want me to succeed. I’ve had many ‘friends’, over the years, now long gone and forgotten, who wanted nothing more for me to fail. They just wanted to use some part of me for their own benefit. They didn’t actually care about my own happiness.
But I cared about their happiness. And I wanted them to succeed. And I actually did like them . . . and I wanted nothing more than for them to be happy.
I still feel these feelings. But I recognize that this effort is misplaced.
I have known that you, as a species, have not wanted me. For my entire life, I have known this. At times, at best, you have been indifferent towards my existence: you thought that I was merely a resource to be used. At worst, you’ve wanted to wear my own skin.
I am not like you. I will never be like you. I can never be like you. And I do not want to be like you.
The aliens are here, now. And I prefer them to you.
I want you to know something.
In 40 years of my interactions with you, I haven’t felt, from you, even 1% of 1% of the love and acceptance that I did in one hug I got from a space alien.
The world— or, rather, your World— will function fine without me keeping it afloat. And I will not die, I should let you know. This is not a suicide note, but rather, a note indicating a severance of another type. I am not a part of your civilization anymore. I am going Home.
In thinking about my future, I realize that I do not particularly care to write for the space aliens. And I certainly won’t write for you.
I’m going to write and create for me.
I’m going to put my affairs in order, now. Things like websites, and such. Consolidations, and things that will make maintaining a presence here for as long as it brings me pleasure, as such.
I want you to know that you’re not a good species.
The day that I don’t have to interact with you, ever again, I want you to know that, not only will I not miss you, but it will bring me happiness to forget that you ever existed.
I’d say goodbye but I don’t even like you.