A person in my household is beginning puberty and has requested we not use "that P-word." This person prefers disoriented. In my day we were defined as klutzy dingbats with raging hormones, incapable of taking accurate phone messages for our parents. It was all just plain embarrassing. Disoriented has some dignity to it.
With unarmed teenagers being shot, unconscionable battles across the globe and ebola on the rise, it's easy to envision humanity as a sputtering bonfire rapidly turning to ash pit. The other popular interpretation is to measure our cultural well-being by innumerable useless standards: prowess in sports, sassy designer shoes or most ludicrous reality shows involving fear of clowns. And then we collectively mope on social media at the hopeless irrelevance of it all by posting never-ending variations of a kitty, claws deep in a tree branch.
"Hang in there, y'all. We'll get 'em in the next World Cup, amateur dance-off or world war!"
Death or irrelevance is a nonsense dualism leaving us bereft, confused and wondering why on a good day we fe