The uncanny valley: save the bees

Have you heard about the bees? Save the bees man. They do so much for us, and they’re DYING.
I’m not the only one. I bet you think you’re the same way too. I go through enormous amounts of my life feeling like I’m not even human. Not a real person. Some jumped up piece of junk encased in flesh and parading around the streets like a marionette. Touch my hand, I’ve got no strings as you can see. But I’m not in control. I’m not in control.


     It hurts my head when I’m in a car at night, in the back of a taxi taking me home from somewhere. I look out of the window and see all the lights on in houses I’ll never go and I can’t let myself imagine all the people thinking their individual thoughts and living their own complex lives. I can’t let that in. It makes me feel like my head is full of those bees. Buzzing around my head until I can’t hear anything else.
     I can spot others like me in the street. Something happened to us. We’re an underlying cult of peculiar engines, functioning and breathing and going to work, but we simply are not the way we ought to be.
     I drift into other people, like a lazy tide, seeping into them until I’m almost an enjoyable presence. Then, typically, like the tide,still, I pull away; far away, at the speed of wild fucking horses, retreat retreat DON’T GET CLOSE. What do I even want? Does it matter? Will I ever know, ultimately what it is that I want? 


     People sense us. They’re not sure what they think. Our parade of professionalism, or our veneer of warmth isn’t convincing to everyone. 
We are a community that isn’t a community, a cult, a gathering that does not gather. We are as threatened as the bees that cultivate our natural world. 
Isn’t that a stupid thing to say? Are you feeling pretty derisive of me right now? Sat there, probably in your underwear and a tshirt or something, a cup of soda on the side and the remnants of a snack on a cracked plate, scrolling through blog posts from all your *interests* because you’re a 3D person so lots of things *interest* you, like to do with your hobbies and “stuff”, right? 
But trust me. 
Something happens. Events in your life change you. It’s like misery or misfortune or just poor development shapes this bizarre amalgamation of human traits into this trough of peculiarity that never gets fixed.


The world isn’t riddled with this type of fuck up, but they aren’t hard to come by either. 
Patrick Bateman from American psycho put it one way (although let’s be clear I’m not likening myself to a psychopath. I like the quote. Fuck off.) 
“There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction; but there is no real me. Only an entity. Something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours, and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there.” 
Although that character is talking about a rather different sensation, in that he feels nothing, I think that the quote is rather chilling for people who have suffered any real trauma. 
Trauma numbs emotional response. It can produce anhedonia even.
     For myself I know my ability to relate and behave in a relatable way is impaired. Laughably impaired. Homeless, orphaned, physically, emotionally and sexually abused for years as a child, I AM NOT WHAT WAS INTENDED.

     I am not what evolution had in mind for a female adult in their prime. I have no ticking biological clock. Children annoy me. At best, I enjoy being childish with them until I can give them back to their parents. 
     I wax and wane in my affections. I’m easily distracted. Spooked. Friends go weeks without hearing from me. Family never hear from me. Not that I really have any of course.
But the internet is causing something to happen. These broken children, these hapless souls are finding each other. Hell, we’re even writing about this stuff on self indulgent blogs for the whole world to read. Those expressionless, wooden faces you see in the street are interlinking invisibly every second of every day. 
Our leader is our shared conundrum, our manifesto is simply to survive and blend in.


You and I don’t know each other. We never will. But someone you meet this week might know me. Not intimately, but they might know of me. They might be just like me. They might be in a better package. Or a worse package. They might be more or less emotive, but we’re out here in growing numbers and we’re not sorry for being the way we are. Setting your creepy tingly neck hairs on end when you look into our evasive, shifty eyes for the split second that you can before we look away because we can’t stand eye contact with you, you filth.
You make jokes about us sometimes. So and so wouldn’t surprise me if they shot up a school. Whatserface is the next Myra Hindley. That guy gives me the creeps. She’s so weird. Why do they fidget like that.
On and on. The cringe that runs through you when you hear that deep ominous buzzing and it could be a bee or it could be a wasp but you’re not sure yet and you’re afraid to feel that sting. 
Well we don’t care about that. Your preconceived notions mean nothing.
Because we don’t feel what you feel, it may surprise you that your opinions don’t keep us awake at night. The only thing we really care about is not ever going back to that time, not ever.
So we live, like aliens among you. We feel in our own way on our own terms. And there are more of us everyday. 
     Every time you hear misogynists ranting on the television like lunatics. Every time the news reports a sex crime. Every time a paedophile ring is busted. 
That’s us being born in great numbers. Men and women who are re-shaped into something else. Made anew. Don’t like us? Find us off putting? Do something about the people that create us.
And, you know. Save the bees.

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