Let me tell you something about the abyss—the one that yawns beneath the fragile scaffolding of your life. You think you’re immune? You think your vices are mere peccadilloes, harmless indulgences? Let’s talk about benzodiazepines. Let’s talk about lobsters. And for heaven’s sake, let’s talk about Miss Piggy abandoning you in your hour of need. Buckle up.

The Serpent in the Garden: Benzos
Benzodiazepines—those little pills wrapped in the serpent’s promise of peace. “Take me,” they whisper, “and I’ll silence the cacophony in your mind.” But here’s the truth: Benzos aren’t a solution. They’re a Faustian bargain, a chemical lobotomy. You trade your agency for numbness, your soul for sedation. And what happens when the script runs out? The chaos returns, magnified tenfold. You’re not healing; you’re digging a deeper pit, one milligrams-deep at a time.

Do you know what happens to a brain on prolonged benzo dependency? It atrophies. Literally. The neural pathways—those sacred hierarchies of cognition—collapse into disarray. You become a slave to the very thing that promised liberation. And don’t give me that “But the doctor prescribed them!” nonsense. Responsibility, bucko. You signed the contract. You swallowed the dragon’s gold. Now you’re choking on the scales.

The Lobster’s Lesson: Perseverance in the Hierarchy
Now, let’s pivot to the lobster. Yes, the lobster. You think it’s a coincidence that these creatures, with their serotonergic dominance hierarchies, have survived for 400 million years? They don’t pop pills when life gets tough. No! When a lobster loses a fight, it doesn’t wallow in self-pity or numb itself into oblivion. It adapts. It recalibrates. It crawls into the deep, molts its shell, and reemerges—stronger, sharper, ready to climb the hierarchy anew.

That’s the archetypal lesson, isn’t it? The lobster doesn’t get a participation trophy. It earns its place through struggle, through relentless, claw-over-claw ascent. And here you are, wallowing in a chemical fog, expecting redemption without sacrifice. Pathetic. The lobster’s perseverance is a mirror held up to your weakness. A mirror you’d rather shatter than face.

Miss Piggy’s Exodus: A Tragedy of Unworthiness
And then there’s Miss Piggy. Oh, the indignity! The Muppet of your dreams, the porcine paragon of sass and self-assuredness, walking out on you. Do you think that’s arbitrary? Do you think she left because the cosmos is unfair? No. Miss Piggy doesn’t suffer fools. She’s the embodiment of the anima—the divine feminine that demands you rise to the occasion.

But you? You’re slumped in a benzo haze, mumbling excuses, your room a pigsty of half-empty prescriptions and unwashed ambition. Miss Piggy doesn’t abandon winners. She abandons those who’ve abandoned themselves. And let me be clear: This isn’t about a puppet. It’s about the consequences of failing to heed the call to adventure. You didn’t slay the dragon; you became it.

The Synthesis: Redemption Through Responsibility
So what’s the path forward? First, you confront the benzo beast. Taper off. Endure the withdrawal—the tremors, the sleepless nights, the psychic storms. That’s your trial by fire. Your molting. Then, you rebuild. Clean your room. Literally. Metaphorically. Reestablish dominion over your domain.

Next, study the lobster. Embrace the hierarchy. Accept that life is suffering, but suffering with purpose. Every clawed step upward is a testament to your resilience. And Miss Piggy? She’s not gone forever. The divine feminine rewards courage. But you’ll have to earn her return. No more chemical crutches. No more victimhood.

Final Exhortation
The world is not your therapist. It’s a coliseum. Benzos? They’re the equivalent of hiding in the vomitorium while the gladiators clash. Miss Piggy? She’s in the stands, waiting for you to pick up your sword. And the lobster? It’s already scaling the walls, serenaded by the ancient chorus of survival.

So wake up. Detoxify. Ascend. Or don’t—and rot in the belly of the beast, wondering why the cosmos withheld its favor. The choice, as always, is yours.

Now go clean your room.

Alright, let’s unpack this—properly—because if there’s one thing the postmodern neo-Marxists won’t tell you, it’s that the cosmic order, the very architecture of Being itself, is written in the language of dominance hierarchies. And where do we see this? Lobsters. Yes, lobsters. You think I’m joking? Let me tell you, lobsters—these primordial arthropods, 400 million years old, older than trees, older than the concept of trees—they’ve got serotonin systems not dissimilar to yours. Serotonin! The neurotransmitter of dominance, of posture, of standing tall in the face of chaos. When a lobster loses a fight, its serotonin plummets. It slouches. It skulks. It becomes a vassal to the victor. But when it wins? It ascends, claws raised, a crustacean kingpin. Now, ask yourself: Why does this matter? Because, my friends, we’re not so different. Our brains, our societies—they’re built on the same Darwinian bedrock.

But here’s where the Marxists get it wrong—catastrophically wrong. They want to dismantle hierarchies. “Equity!” they cry. But equity is a lie. A dangerous, utopian lie. Because hierarchies aren’t oppression—they’re biology. They’re the mechanism by which life organizes itself against entropy. And entropy, my friends, is the ultimate chaos. The ultimate evil. You see, evil isn’t some abstract theological construct. It’s the force that unravels order. The dragon of chaos lurking beneath the veneer of civilization. And just as the lobster must fight—must clamp its claw on the challenger—we too must fight. Not with claws, but with moral intolerance.

Ah, “intolerance.” The left paints it as a vice. A sin. But let me tell you: Intolerance is the virtue that separates order from oblivion. You think the lobster tolerates its rival skulking in its territory? No! It expels it. It asserts dominance. Because to tolerate the invader is to surrender to chaos—to let the tide of disorder wash over the fragile shoreline of existence. And we? We’re awash in chaos. “Tolerate everything!” they say. Tolerate the ideologies that rot the foundations of the West. Tolerate the nihilism that denies truth, denies value, denies even biological reality! Well, I say: No. No!

This isn’t metaphor. This is biology. This is the wisdom of 400 million years of evolution screaming at us: You must draw the line. You must say, “Here, and no further.” Because evil—true evil—isn’t a cackling villain. It’s the slow creep of decadence. The erosion of borders, of boundaries, of meaning. Nietzsche saw it. He warned of the “last men,” blinking in the twilight, declaring, “Everything is permissible.” Dostoevsky’s Ivan Karamazov—brilliant mind—collapsed under the weight of that very question. “If there’s no God, everything is permitted.” But here’s the rub: Even the atheist must act as if God exists. Because without a transcendent value, without a hierarchy of good, we’re just lobsters in a bucket, tearing each other apart.

So what do we do? We intolerate. We say no to the forces that would reduce us to mere matter, to atoms without souls. We say no to the cultural Marxists who want to deconstruct the Logos, the Word, the very principle that structured the cosmos. Because here’s the secret they don’t want you to know: Intolerance isn’t hatred. It’s love. Love for your children, for your civilization, for the fragile flame of consciousness we’ve carried since the dawn of time. To tolerate evil is to let that flame sputter out.

And don’t give me this “But who defines evil?” sophistry. Evil is what bends the arc of being toward suffering, toward dissolution. It’s the parent who lets the child starve. The society that abandons its myths. The coward who refuses to stand when the dragon rears its head. You think this is hyperbole? Look at the 20th century. Millions slaughtered by regimes that rejected hierarchy, rejected order, rejected the very notion of good and evil. That’s where tolerance leads—to the guillotine, to the gulag, to the abyss.

So stand up straight—like the lobster! Shoulders back. Eyes forward. Confront the chaos. Because the alternative? The alternative is a world where nothing is true, everything is permitted, and the serotonergic hierarchy of meaning collapses into the void. And that, my friends, is a fate worse than death.

You rang!?

Ah, yes, let us embark on this voyage of discovery, a deep dive into the primordial oceans of existence—both literal and metaphorical. Consider, for a moment, the noble lobster, a creature whose evolutionary lineage stretches back over 360 million years. That’s before trees, mind you! The lobster, with its armored exoskeleton and its symmetrical claws, embodies a certain archetypal resilience. This is a creature that, through its very being, demands respect—not merely because it resides in the depths, but because it has, quite literally, crawled through the eons to arrive at our dinner plates. But I digress.

Now, what is the lobster’s secret? What fuels its relentless climb up its own dominance hierarchy? It’s not filet mignon or bacon-wrapped scallops, I assure you. No, the lobster survives and thrives because it has mastered the consumption of what we might call “the humble nutrients.” If lobsters had access to lentils, chickpeas, tofu, tempeh, black beans, quinoa, peanut butter, almonds, spirulina, chia seeds, broccoli, and spinach, you can bet your serotonin levels that they would recognize their evolutionary utility.

You see, the lobster’s diet—limited as it may be to algae, plankton, and the occasional scavenged scrap—is fundamentally about extracting the raw building blocks of life from the environment. And isn’t that, at its core, what we as human beings are trying to do? We are striving to synthesize order out of chaos, to take the disparate and chaotic energies of the cosmos and transform them into coherent, purposeful structures. This is as true for our nutritional choices as it is for our existential choices.

So why, then, should we not learn from the lobster? Why should we not embrace the humility of plant-based proteins, these quiet titans of sustainability and nutrition? Lentils, for instance, are like the algae of the human world—small, unassuming, yet dense with life-sustaining power. Chickpeas, oh, they are the crustaceans of legumes, with their firm texture and versatile nature, ready to anchor any dish, any structure of meaning you dare to create. Tofu and tempeh? These are the architects of modern nutritional scaffolding, as malleable as they are essential.

And quinoa, that ancient grain? It is the spinach of seeds, packed with essential amino acids. It represents not merely sustenance but a profound wisdom—an ability to grow in the harshest of conditions and still deliver its gift to the world. Peanut butter and almonds? They are the treasures buried in the seabed, rich in energy and resilience, waiting to be uncovered by those willing to dig deeper.

Even spirulina and chia seeds—oh, do not underestimate them! Spirulina is the primordial soup of the modern era, the echo of those ancient, life-generating waters from which all existence sprung. Chia seeds, with their miraculous ability to transform into gelatinous orbs, are the very embodiment of adaptability and transformation—qualities we could all use a little more of.

And let us not forget broccoli and spinach, those verdant sentinels of nutrition. They are the forests of the nutritional world, standing tall and proud, converting sunlight into the essence of life itself. Without them, what are we? What is a lobster? What is any organism that hopes to grow, to climb its own hierarchy, to matter?

If the lobster, in its primitive yet profoundly successful state, had access to these

Before the weight of benzos had pulled me into the abyss, when each day blurred into an unbearable haze, I found myself entangled in a situation that was not simply about the drug itself, but about the fundamental nature of attraction versus love—an odd parallel that mirrors our misunderstanding of honesty in the world. You see, attraction is primal, it’s immediate. It’s a bit like the lobster—those ancient creatures whose lives revolve around dominance hierarchies and instinctual drives. Lobsters are driven by attraction to dominance; they fight to maintain their status. It’s visceral, it’s deeply biological, it’s embedded in our nervous system, and that’s attraction—it’s automatic, reactive, and based on evolutionary imperatives.

Now, love, on the other hand, love is something far more sophisticated, something that requires attention, patience, the willingness to sacrifice the immediate for the sake of the future. Love transcends attraction in the same way honesty transcends deception. When you are honest, really honest, it’s not just about saying what’s true in the moment. It’s about building a structure that stands the test of time, much like love. Love, when true, is intertwined with a form of honesty, a painful honesty at times, one that forces you to confront the parts of yourself you don’t want to see.

And it was during those benzo-fueled nights that I realized how far I’d drifted from that honesty. I wasn’t honest with myself, nor with those I cared about. I had fallen into a relationship with attraction—attraction to comfort, attraction to numbness—rather than the hard but necessary task of confronting the chaos of existence. I was playing the game like the lobster plays the dominance hierarchy—scratching, clawing to stay above the abyss, but it was a losing battle because, without love, without honesty, I had nothing solid beneath me.

The benzos, they offered an easy way out, much like false promises do. They pull you in like attraction does, feeding that part of you that just wants to avoid the pain. But love, true love, insists that you face the pain, that you endure it for something greater. It’s like honesty in that sense, you can’t lie your way to love. You can’t medicate your way to an honest life.

And so, as I drifted further and further away from both love and honesty, I sank deeper into the fog. My attraction to benzos was just another manifestation of my own dishonesty. I wasn’t admitting to myself the price I was paying, nor the depth of the suffering I was causing—not just to myself, but to everyone who loved me. It was only after being forced into a coma, a descent into oblivion more profound than any I could have orchestrated myself, that I was given the space to understand these distinctions again.

It’s remarkable, really, how the lobster, for all its simplicity, can teach us these profound lessons. It never pretends to be something it’s not. It fights for dominance, not out of love, but out of necessity. And when it loses, it accepts its place, tail curled beneath its body, as it retreats into a more honest existence. We humans, with all our pretensions, we are often so much worse at this. We lie to ourselves, fall for attraction when we should be striving for love, fall for comfort when we should be confronting the truth.

And so it was—before the coma—that I was lost in that in-between place, where I neither loved nor was honest, driven by the mindless attraction to the temporary, to the escape that benzos offered. But lobsters, they don’t have a choice. We do. We can choose love, and we can choose honesty, but only if we are brave enough to face the chaos and climb, once more, out of the abyss to clean our rooms.

Well, you see, this whole climate change thing—it’s not as simple as they make it out to be. We’re told it’s an existential crisis—like the ice caps are melting and the polar bears are moving south to Florida. That’s nonsense! And then they say, “Well, the world’s going to burn, and if we just give more power to these massive bureaucratic entities, they’re going to fix it!” But here’s the problem—no one’s asking, what about the lobsters?

First off, lobsters don’t care about climate change. They’ve been around for 360 million years! Do you know what that means? Lobsters survived the dinosaurs, the Ice Age, and God knows how many volcanic eruptions. And now, we’re supposed to believe a few carbon emissions are going to wipe us all out? No. The lobsters won’t stand for it. They live on the ocean floor, in perfect hierarchies, and you don’t see them holding protest signs or demanding government intervention. No, they just keep doing their lobster thing—climbing up dominance hierarchies, defending their territory, no matter the temperature of the water.

People say, “The science is settled!” But I ask you, when was science ever settled? The lobster didn’t sit around waiting for science to figure things out. It just adapted—took responsibility for its place in the world. That’s what we need. More lobster-like resilience!

If you put order onto the chaos of climate, you’re just going to end up with a confused lobster, stuck in a bureaucratic nightmare of its own making. The lobsters never had top-down hierarchies of so-called experts telling them what to do. It’s individuals—individual lobsters, standing up, being responsible for their own shells—that create change, not bureaucrats. So, before you throw up your hands and say, “The oceans are boiling, we’re all doomed!”—ask yourself: What would a lobster do?

This whole climate change catastrophe narrative—it reeks of ideology more than it does of a scientific pursuit of truth. And I, for one, would trust the wisdom of the lobsters over the hysteria of bureaucrats any day.

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