I wiped my ass this morning and while staring at the brown smear on the toilet paper I couldn’t help but ponder on how it all has to be an accident. I can’t look at the aftermath of my creation and believe this is all part of some Grand Design. I’m not talking on an all-of-it-has-already-been-decided scale – I’m just talking about the walking, talking, shitting meat sack and all of its oddities and intricacies. You want me to believe that some omnipotent presence, twiddling his thumbs, gets the grand idea to make us piss and shit and fart and sneeze out mucus? I know, I know, we are made in his/her likeness. Can you imagine the monster shits God must be taking? All the organs and all their functions; spleens and appendixes and gall bladders, all this thought out and planned – bullshit! None of it makes sense. Trees don’t make sense. They’re alive but don’t do anything but also necessary for all survival while a platypus lives yet serves no purpose, you can’t even eat it. Or maybe you can, I honestly have no idea and do not care to fact check my points at this moment. The Grand Design exists because we, human beings, cannot accept the fact that we may not be all that special. Exceptional. That all of this, life and death, serves no purpose whatsoever. That all of this complexity could possible just be a series of truly random events that lead us to this point. Seems like bullshit too. The Grand Designer must be having a laugh, watching some moron sit on the shitter, staring at his own poo, trying to figure it all out, make sense of any of it. Truth is, no one’s watching. It’s just shit. Maybe.