Screwed up, I know. That was what Orwell, Huxley, Bradbury, hell even whoever made that terrible film where Christian Bale can shoot a dozen people at once with two guns while dancing, wanted you to think. Control to that degree is messed up. But I don't know. Sometimes I don't feel so turned off by the notion of suppressing the feeling of love. It is, after all, a manifestation of well-executed evolutionary psychology; a byproduct that was the result of the fact that those who felt love cared for their offspring better, so their offspring had a better chance of surviving and creating more people who felt love. But goddamn, sometimes it's the worst feeling ever. Sometimes it absolutely gets in the way of just about everything else. Maybe it's not such a terrible idea to suppress that feeling a little bit- our kids will grow up just fine, there aren't really saber-tooth tigers to save them from anymore.
So pour me a glass of victory gin, I'm gonna burn a book, watch an egg get fertilized on a conveyor belt, and maybe feel a little less distracted and shitty from a byproduct of our obnoxiously evolved brains. Maybe that's not so terrible after all.