Born in the Shadow of Evolution: Introduction to the American Tragedy

I’m just an ordinary guy; “ordinary” being the easiest and shortest way of saying something that could use a bit more profound definition. But rather than supply the technical and logical exactness by defining my version of the word “ordinary” in this instance, I have decided to do something more interesting, and perhaps even… fun. I will not undermine Webster’s authority; no, instead of being boring and to the point, I will write a story.
“Ordinary” was a generalized term summarizing a thought that I was thinking in a way that I can understand. I can imagine how unlikely it is that you are telepathic and the dilemma you face in trying to grasp the exact detail of the contents of my mind. I would be more than happy to elaborate on that thought of mine, although if you are indeed a telepath, don’t let your talent go to waste; Ms. Cleo is in dire need of competition.
To really understand this specific usage of the adjective “ordinary,” you must dig deep into your comprehension of elementary English mechanics and recall that an adjective is a description of a particular trait of a noun, allowing for comparison, diversity, and clarity of specific nouns; noun – person, place, or thing. In this case, the noun receiving the description “ordinary” is “guy.” Put them together and you have: ordinary guy, me. But how is “ordinary” in any way comparable, diversifying, or clarifying? I’m getting to that!
To get right to the bottom of this enigma, and also to justify why I’m taking as long as an amateur comedian telling the antithesis of a good joke, by saying that I am an ordinary guy, what I’m really trying to say is that I just happen to be an average, young, male human. Repeat: average, young, male human.
Maybe things aren’t quite clear enough just yet. Let me break it down. When I use the word “average,” I mean: just like everybody else, or at least very similar; the bottom line is that I can relate to others like me. Young: simply put, I have a short history, and a lot to learn; therefore, keep in mind that this is by no means meant to be a story with moral lessons or to cause the development of vast wisdom by taking a trip in my shoes and a peek through my eyes, although I am a firm believer that there is something unique and beneficial to be learned from anybody – including Homer Simpson – given the capacity to learn. Nor is this a suitable text for a class on sexual education; at this point in time, no visual reference is necessary to understand that I am a male, and the relevance of the fact that I am male is to be discovered in due time. Perhaps the most important thing to understand is that I am human, more specifically, a resident of New Jersey.
Typically, the life of the average human, most especially an American, lacks the amount of suspense inherent in the struggle for survival that all living organisms experience. Centuries of accumulated knowledge, technology, advancement, society, organization, government, and convenience are at our disposal. Groceries, restaurants, houses, beds, bathrooms, and toilets provide all the necessities at priceless comfort. If you were a cow at the slaughter house, or a salivating wolf stuck in a rabbit hole like a cork in a bottle of Champagne, and you were insightful to the luxurious lives of humans, you would probably be jealous. A wolf would dream of going to heaven and finding itself with a refridgerator. The irony is that, regardless of how easy and potentially fulfilling living as a human is compared to living as a deer, who doesn’t have the potential to be educated in elementary school to look both ways before crossing the street, regardless of how grateful we should all be for being able to do things like create art and music, slip roofies into drinks, build skyscrapers, crash jet planes into skyscrapers, and write really long introductions… we still have complaints. When is the last time a funeral was held for road-kill?
It can’t be denied, and I personally believe that there is no other way to face up to my own hypochondria than to exploit its comedic value. I recall high school. And I recall having crushes on girls, even dating them on occasion, and experiencing heartbreak. And ouch, that hurt pretty badly. But looking back, I feel like it could have been much worse. I could have been born a male walrus. If you don’t take my meaning, just imagine a game of poker where all the females in existence are in the pot; winner takes all. Luckily, though, I was born human. When trivial dilemmas become too much of a burden for my soft emotions, I and all the other second-rate walruses can theorize the solutions to our woman-problems at the bar.