Normally I don't indulge in whingeing. To me it just makes me more depressed, so instead I very much rather make fun of my illnesses and pain, and (mentally) de-personalise the failings of my physical body and focus on surviving long enough to become a Cyborg!
And go to Mars! Or even to the nearest Exo-Solar planet in a itty bitty exploration probe. And mess with the Extra-terrestrials. I found this jpeg floating about in Facebook which summarises the Cosmic Joker in me:
I mean, why not? To me, a sense of ironical humour is a telling sign of intelligence.
Back to being a Cyborg, why do I want to be a Cyborg? Simply put, my physical body is failing much much faster than I'd like it to be. Too many soft tissue damages, fractures, aches, pains, infections. The only way I can ignore the Doom of Disability is to make sure I don't rely on the (failing) natural, biological, physical attributes that I have and Imagine a world where I can just upload my personality, memories and humour into a Machine. And leave this world and look for newer ones.
Escapism to the N-th degree. Do you blame me? Then you should blame Stephen Hawking as well. He started it.
The physicist in me is thrilled by his work. The Biologist in me is having paroxysms of philosophical pain, trying to ingest his words. The very ill Ehlers Danlos sufferer in me admires his tenacity. How not? What better way is there in the whole wide world, to ignore pain, disability and incoming death, than to formulate alternate realities? In that way Hawking is my J. M. Barrie; and Multiverse is my Neverland.
In an alternative universe, I am perfectly healthy. In an alternate universe, I do not suffer from infections after infections. In an alternate universe, I am perfectly happy zooming around the universe, making Crop Circles and confounding the other specie!
Yes, that is me. Thank you, Mr Hawking, for giving flesh to my alternate reality, and coming up with the mathematics to prove it!
Gotta Go. I need to make some Crop Circles somewhere....
And go to Mars! Or even to the nearest Exo-Solar planet in a itty bitty exploration probe. And mess with the Extra-terrestrials. I found this jpeg floating about in Facebook which summarises the Cosmic Joker in me:
I mean, why not? To me, a sense of ironical humour is a telling sign of intelligence.
Back to being a Cyborg, why do I want to be a Cyborg? Simply put, my physical body is failing much much faster than I'd like it to be. Too many soft tissue damages, fractures, aches, pains, infections. The only way I can ignore the Doom of Disability is to make sure I don't rely on the (failing) natural, biological, physical attributes that I have and Imagine a world where I can just upload my personality, memories and humour into a Machine. And leave this world and look for newer ones.
Escapism to the N-th degree. Do you blame me? Then you should blame Stephen Hawking as well. He started it.
The physicist in me is thrilled by his work. The Biologist in me is having paroxysms of philosophical pain, trying to ingest his words. The very ill Ehlers Danlos sufferer in me admires his tenacity. How not? What better way is there in the whole wide world, to ignore pain, disability and incoming death, than to formulate alternate realities? In that way Hawking is my J. M. Barrie; and Multiverse is my Neverland.
In an alternative universe, I am perfectly healthy. In an alternate universe, I do not suffer from infections after infections. In an alternate universe, I am perfectly happy zooming around the universe, making Crop Circles and confounding the other specie!
Yes, that is me. Thank you, Mr Hawking, for giving flesh to my alternate reality, and coming up with the mathematics to prove it!
Gotta Go. I need to make some Crop Circles somewhere....
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