Inescapable Insufficiency of Intelligence
I once had an epiphany while sipping my black coffee down the winding lengths of Fifth Avenue, and that epiphany led me to develop an interest in something I never felt interested in before now. Do you feel any type of smart at all? How do you know you’re not stupid if you’re not smart enough to feel stupid? Did you read some fancy pseudoscience-driven article on intelligence on the New York Times because you think they’re the most trustworthy news source, letting them press deep down into your denting conscience? Well, if there’s anything Fifth Avenue tells me, it’s that you lack sufficient intelligence. Simply put, you’re hella stupid.
Fifth Avenue is where I go to experience soul-wracking revelations, though that can describe the concrete jungle of New York City as a whole. I can often feel my soul wither away out of me. The Sun shining down on me, blinding me so much at my computer that I put on sunglasses to lessen the pain of God striking down on me. Good grief, it’s an agonizing hellscape, but it’s an educational one at best. Living near Times Square on 49th does things to the psyche. The baffling scale of the world makes the individual human like you and I small and insignificant. If intelligence is the representation of man, then you are all truly stupid, like hopelessly stupid, lest you gain the strength to pick up the weights and flex that cranial carriage.
A conversation once slithered into my ear canals once. It kind of, I guess, went something like this. “You ain’t on nothing,” spoke a bustling boom of harmonics and vocal noise.
“Ah, you right,” replied the insulted victim that was spoken to in second person.
“Bet,” closed the first voice on the third step.
I know, this is very complex, but anything seems complex for a simple-minded simpleton, but it’s really simple. You lack brainpower. Synapses senescently shut down simultaneously, the last blips of electricity fade out as neurons collapse and implode inward before bursting like a sac. Do you feel it? That is stupidity settling in, descending down into a spiral. Any smart person worth their salt knows their stupidity, their amount, and how they are stupid, but stupid people are too stupid to recognize “stupid.” Perhaps we all fit that category because intelligence as an abstract concept is too abstract to wrap the human brain around, but it fits you all more than it fits me. Why, the only things that fit me are my personality and my clothes, which are certainly of remarkable stature.
Perhaps some installation of mental RAM or drinking wozone to facilitate operation of your cranial cage will alleviate the insufficiency of intelligence, or maybe smoking your dog’s ashes will fire up those synapses once and for all.
I suppose I want to ask a really epiphanic question of sorts: how insufficient is your intelligence? Are you smart enough to matter? Do you know enough to know you even matter? Does your existence carry any mental cognition to carry on its primordial purpose? Really though, in the vast cosmos, do you matter? Listen and shut up for a second, then think about it. You are at the event horizon of intelligence, forever staggering around as a zombified reduction of particle interaction and synaptic discharge behind a keyboard, mindlessly, or perhaps in a cognizant manner, writing empty thoughts of no meaning to the world on a social media platform. Like the thoughts you graciously give places like Twitter the displeasure of highlighting its existence, you are empty in all fields of intelligence, forever being a regression of those above you. You’re hella stupid and you don’t know it. For real. Despite doing something, you’re doing nothing. You’re probably reading this confused to all hell. Good. Let this draw the line that separates us from the distinguished from the extinguished. As you lay beneath the mortal coil, think about how I transcend you in all fundamental branches of smartness. As my colleagues would say: y’all ain’t on nothing. Y’all are stupid and dumb. For real.