I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I’ve decided to join a cult.
Now, I know what you’re saying. You’re saying something along the lines of, “Adam, you fetching, overambitious moron. Don’t you have enough going on in your life without the impenetrable loyalty demanded by a cult? What are you thinking?”
First, I appreciate your concerns. I also largely agree with you. Just last night, I’d mentioned to my wife that we needed to watch all six “Resident Evil” movies.
“What if we both die in some tragic accident?” I yell-asked her. “Like, if an airplane crashed into our house or a sinkhole sucked our neighborhood straight down into the core of the earth. Do you think you could look the good Lord in the massive, glowing eye and admit you never made it all the way through director Paul W.S Anderson’s loose and wonky adaptation of a beloved video game series? I don’t think so.”
But I can’t help myself. Every time I hop on the social medias, I see friends and family and acquaintances and total strangers I added to my friends list for some reason exhibiting cult-like behavior – expressing unquestioning devotion to a person, a state, a political party, an ideology, religion, an obscure subgenre of music or, on rare occasions, some ancient slumbering creature that will one day awaken to devour all of time and space. And I can’t help but read these grammatically iffy but emotionally resonant posts and realize that, despite all I have going for me, something is missing from my life.
Maybe it’s a sense of purpose. Perhaps it’s a feeling of belonging? Likely, it’s the confidence that whatever path I’m on is the right one. Those kinds of questions will clutter your brain and keep you up at night.
A cult could easily help with that.
I’ve never felt half as strongly about anything as that guy my high school best friend invited to hang out with us that one time professes to feel about the Progressive Libertarian Constitutionally Green Imperialistic Unitarian Party, the leader of which – Dr. Romulus Q. Raven McLeod II – is either an alien or a time traveler or a time traveling alien. Doesn’t matter. He’s definitely going to be the next president of the world, a position you didn’t realize existed because the media has been hiding it from you for centuries. At least that’s what the guy my high school best friend invited to hang out with us that one time writes several times a day in the comments under my posts about my kid.
God, I can’t even begin to imagine what it must feel like to have that kind of passion burning inside me – to not shamble around every day in a state of half-death, feeling more emotionally akin to the discarded husk of cicada than a fellow human being, questioning every decision I’ve ever made or ever will make. It must be nice.
Well, I’ll know soon enough. That’s because I’m going to join a cult. Doesn’t really matter which. They’re all fundamentally the same. And I’ll welcome with open arms the the robes, the dogma, the social media obnoxiousness, the “Cult Life” sticker to place on the back window of my Toyota Yaris.
But, most importantly, I’ll welcome the sense of purpose and peace. After all, the best way to unburden your brain of all the mess that weighs it down is with a good wash.