A Thought Experiment: Why I'd Still Eat the Suicide Spaghetti
You want to know how my world works? How my “Pattern Recognition” processes information? Forget politics, forget the news. Let's talk about a cartoon episode involving spaghetti made from people who kill themselves. It's the cleanest explanation I've got.
If you've seen the Rick and Morty episode, you know the setup. The spaghetti is delicious, but it comes from a horrific source. At first, society is repulsed. Then, the system does what it always does: it sanitizes the horror. It packages it, puts a label on it, and serves it up for “Spaghetti Wednesdays.” They make the unbearable palatable by turning it into an abstract, clean, ethical product. Sound familiar?
The system works until Rick, in an act of sabotage, decides to rub everyone's face in the “truth.” He broadcasts the entire life story of the man who became the “perfect spaghetti.” The show expects the audience to be horrified. To see this messy, complicated life full of love, failure, and regret, and to be so overcome with empathy that they can no longer stomach the product.
The show wanted me to feel sorry for this guy. My first thought was: “Fuck this guy.”
My Pattern Recognition didn't see a tragic, messy life. It saw a clear chain of destructive choices made by a person with flawed character. Let's run the tape like I see it:
He leaves his girlfriend to pursue a career he's terrible at. A bad choice built on ego.
He cheats on partners out of self-pity for his own failures. Weakness.
He finally achieves success, then runs into his ex. She tells him, “I have a husband and kids.” Her life has structure. It has commitments.
He pursues her anyway. She cheats with him. They blow up a family. This isn't “messy.” This is a deliberate act of selfish destruction. This is the point of no return.
And what about the collateral damage? The husband. The father of those kids. What happens to him in this heartfelt montage? He just... vanishes. He is erased from the story the moment he becomes an inconvenient truth. The narrative doesn't give a shit about him, and it expects me not to, either. It wants me to watch the two people who broke everything build a new life together and see it as a bittersweet romance.
I see it as horrible people getting exactly what they want at the expense of an innocent person. The story isn't deep; it's corrupt. It asks for my empathy for the architects of the problem while deliberately hiding the victim.
So when the world in the show vomits, horrified by the messy “truth” of this one man's life, I just shrug. I've run the diagnostic. I've audited the source. He wasn't a tragic figure. He was a man who made selfish choices that hurt people, who built his happiness on the ruins of another family. He failed the moral audit. His sad ending doesn't grant him retroactive immunity. The woman isn't a victim, either; she was a willing accomplice.
So, yes. After all that. I'd eat the spaghetti.
Pass the “par-mee-zee-an”
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