Nine months before you were born, your mum and your dad got laid. An explosion happened, and this time, without a rubber. That explosion led to a bunch of little pricks called sperm charging head first into a bunch of eggs, and it was a race to see who could get to the juicy centre.

Out of the two to three hundred million of the little bastards, one got in, took the glory and then got swallowed by the egg. That egg then gestated inside your mum, slowly got bigger and bigger, your mum got moody and ate a lot, dad got mad at the lack of sex, and suddenly you’re popping out like a ping pong, screaming about the fact that you just got woken up from your nice nap time.

Congratulations, you’re alive. You exist.

The world is shiny, bright and spotty at first. You hear sounds here and there and start to recognize important ones. Maybe it’s the deep boomy voice of your dad or the soft, nurturing one of your mum. Maybe it’s just one of them. Then you start to learn to see, and move your little hands and cry for things. You start to make funny noises which turn into things called “words” and through it you learn about language.

From there, you walk. You also begin to talk clearer. You begin to learn how to ask for things. People around you think you’re cute. Then a pain in the arse, then cute again. Really depends on your temperament, which you develop as you experience more and more things. But nonetheless, generally speaking, there’s some love around you.

As you grow, you speak more. You think more. You start to learn how to differentiate. A ball is a ball. A blue ball is not a red ball. Girls have cooties, boys don’t. This teacher is nice, this teacher’s a shit. As you grow, that brain of yours thinks even more, and then parts of your body get bigger and more sensitive. If you’re a lady, you start to get a bit funny down there and sometimes a boy (or girl) gives you some really funny feelings. If you’re a boy, a stiff wind gets you stiff. Literally anything gets you stiff. Welcome to adolescence.

Then you learn more about things and wonder what it means to be alive a little. You take interest in something, you focus on it, or you find someone in particular very interesting and focus only on them. You fall in love, forget your friends, get really bloody stiff, and have an adventure. Maybe you get your heart broken, or near infinite other variables, but life goes on, and you have experiences.

So you grow. You get bigger, and eventually, you become an adult. A fully functional human being with a name, a social security number, hobbies, interests, a mostly functional lifestyle, and then maybe some stagnation.

Maybe you start thinking more. A lot more. And you start to wonder what the point of it all is. Maybe you wonder whether the girl or guy you married was the right one, and whether the job or interests you have are truly yours and of interest to you. Perhaps you start to feel really down, and getting out of bed is a monumental task in itself. You coil up, in darkness, maybe looking at social media time to time, but deep down you’re sad and feeling alone, because you’ve got no bloody clue what’s going on, and in some sense you’re afraid. Perhaps you got here because you lost someone who meant the world to you, and you feel like nothing even matters anymore because what good is it when you eventually lose what’s important, right?

But maybe you’re thinking about it a little weird. You’re too focused on what is lost rather than the miracle that you are.

So, let’s think about why you’re a miracle.

When your dad and your mum met, back in the day when you were part of a ballsack, your dad chose your mum and your mum chose your dad out of the nearly infinite other choices available. Mum could’ve gone with the hot fireman at the Cuban resort, but instead she chose Larry. And Larry could’ve had a fling with Sue from accounting, but instead he chose your mum. And they banged, an explosion happened, and out of the two to three hundred million of the little bastards, you were the one that got in. You won a battle royale before you were even bloody born.

Now really think about the fucking miracle that is.

Out of the billions of people on this planet, two people got together, had sex, blew a load and out of all that, and the sliver of a chance of success, you came to life. I’m not a mathematician, I’m an artist, so don’t ask me to calculate the odds of that. But I know it’s a big number.

As far as I’m concerned, the moment you were born was the moment you were a champion, because you already won a game of ridiculously small odds. You have a higher probability of seeing a shooting star multiple times in your life than being born.

You’re a fucking miracle by all stretches of the imagination. You’re here, you’ve won the golden ticket to experience the absolute wonder of being alive, and you’re going to let a heart break, a mean tweet, a bully, a cynic – ruin your chance at living how you want to live?

After all that hard work from being a tiny sperm to growing up and going through whatever craziness you went through, you’re going to just sit back and wonder “why bother”?

You’re rarer than a shooting star and a comet being seen by a human being combined. You’re one out of over seven billion miracles that is walking this planet and are not doing the things you enjoy doing. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a rare case of exploding star, and I’d really rather hear about you creating a magnificent explosion while you’re here, because that is what being alive is all about. You already won the game of birth, and when you win at something, you really ought to celebrate like a king/queen.

So celebrate it like one. Recognize the miracle that is you, stick a polite finger at the cynics who have given up on their chance, and create a magnificent explosion with the beautiful radiance of a supernova so that every other miracle that matters on this planet can see it, appreciate it and be inspired in their own way. Whatever colour, shape or form that explosion takes, you choose. It’s your life, your chance. Make it count.

You’re a fucking miracle, and don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise. Act like it.

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2 comments on “The Miracle of You

  1. Pingback: Your Ice Cream Tastes Are Being Judged – Frog Machinery

  2. Pingback: Your Pudding Has No Proof – Frog Machinery

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