I might as well be honest: my long-term outlook is colored by a case of lukewarm depression. Or impotent fury; I'll leave you to decide which is more debilitating.
I'm naturally solitary and I don't sense anything inherently wrong with that. Nevertheless, I'm sometimes overcome with a crushing mammalian sense of loneliness. And everything suddenly seems remote, like watching a crudely pixelated disaster unfold on a video monitor.

Paradoxically, this very sense of detachment catalyzes my interest in undermining the definition of "human" -- because, frankly, I'm sick to death of being human. Either "humanness" has failed me or I've failed it; in either case, I'm left disillusioned, like a tourist with someone else's luggage and only a fuzzy sense of the local geography. And it never quite goes away. The most I can do is douse it in caffeine and bury it under mounds of preemptive disgust.
I crave mutation -- but I want to be in control. Naturally, one of my pressing concerns is staying alive long enough that future science can help reconcile the schism between the fragile construct that passes for my identity and the laughable exhibition that passes for civilization.
I'm not asking for a quick fix. I'm not dodging personal responsibility. I just want a more concrete sense of
why I'm enduring this spectacle. And I don't think for one minute that I'm unique in that sense.