Benjamin Button Disease

I never truly understood the F. Scott Fitzgerald short story Benjamin Button. Then I had a thought. What if that story is actually science fiction of a sort based upon the fact that people might be so selfish and delusional that they can no longer reproduce in a manner that is natural in the eyes of all that is good, namely, our one God of truth. What if we are already in a brave new world far beyond that of Aldous Huxley’s vivid imagination or even the Twilight Zone itself. And in this stranger things have happened paradox of life, elitist snobs now rule everything and because the females among them did not want to be inconvenienced by anything including but not limited to menstruation, they removed their girly parts of sexual reproduction while the men castrated themselves (though most likely not), and these rigid beasts can now only reproduce in two distinct ways: The men rape their young still fertile daughters and produce children with developmental problems including but not limited to Down’s syndrome. Or, they use necromancy via Benjamin Buttoning to reproduce asexually in a continuous loop of unhappiness. The sadness of the Benjamin Button life is that men can never have a wife or be a husband because they can neither evolve nor die. It is the life of a dog after burial in a pet cemetery: a zombie life; the same life lived again and again and again “to infinity to beyond”. And as acknowledged by William Shakespeare himself in Act 5, Scene 5 of MacBeth:

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow; Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools; The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle. Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

I used to call myself nothing and nobody because I believed that everyone was important, and that I was NOTHING special. I wanted to help as many people as I could on this crazy blue marble. However, I apparently lack the ability to adequately express myself in a manner that anyone can understand. I feel that I must be on a different planet than the planet I believed I was born on because this terra is suddenly less firm than I remember it to be. Maybe that was just my childlike interpretation of what I believed to be reality. And now, I am once again confused about truth, justice, and reality. Maybe it is just me. Maybe I am the problem, and I alone signify nothing in this brave new world where I find myself alone without friends, family, or even the children I presume I gave birth to in the year number 2002.

I guess since I ain’t nothing, I can’t be a hero in nobody’s eyes, not even my own. What is a hero anyway? As a girl with maybe most of her girly parts, all I can be is a heroine without a syringe and needle in my arm. I have settled for edibles with THC and CBD instead of a drug called HORSE. But, just like heroes, “Life Ain’t Nothing, but A Ham Sandwich” after all, or maybe a veggie omelet, hold the pork belly and pork chops, and add two extra slices of American Cheese and Slather it with Nacho Cheese sauce, and spice it up with two tablespoons of sliced canned jalapeños, please!