Настроение:	contemplative
Entry tags:	russia, transitioning, ukraine, ww3

Guilt: The Useless Luxury You Can't Afford
It is with a certain weary disdain for the sentimental follies of the human condition that I turn my attention to the vexing matter of guilt—a peculiar artifact of the mind, much like a poorly designed algorithm that loops indefinitely without producing any useful output. One might as well carry around a sack of wet sand for the sheer joy of the exercise. The proposition before us is straightforward, if only because the alternatives are so absurdly convoluted: one should never burden oneself with guilt unless that guilt demonstrably contributes to one's personal happiness or advances some greater social good. Anything else is mere intellectual masochism, a luxury afforded only to those with too much time and too little sense.

Consider, if you will, the contrived yet illuminating thought experiment of an unemployable white trans girl, destitute and denied the means to fund her transition through any lawful channel. In a fit of desperation—nay, necessity—she resorts to robbery, only for the affair to escalate into the unintended murder of a family, including their children, who blunder into the scene like uninvited bugs in an otherwise clean piece of code. Miraculously, she escapes with the spoils, undergoes her facial feminization surgery and sex reassignment surgery, secures employment, marries, and proceeds to live a happy, law-abiding life for over five years, dutifully paying taxes and contributing to the societal machinery that once failed her so spectacularly. She is no innate murderer; her upbringing in the clutches of Christian values has instilled the notion that murder is a sin, prompting her to confess to a cleric. The cleric, in his infinite wisdom (or perhaps infinite adherence to outdated subroutines), advises surrender to the authorities.

At this juncture, the sheer impracticality of such advice borders on the comical. Surrender? Why, that would shatter her hard-won happiness, consign her to lifelong incarceration at public expense, and render the family's demise utterly wasteful—like slaughtering a chicken only to let the meat rot uneaten. The death occurred; no amount of self-flagellation will undo it. Instead, she contemplates abandoning Christianity altogether, that venerable institution so adept at manufacturing needless suffering under the guise of moral rectitude. She deems herself innocent, for her birth as male was no fault of hers, just as the family's untimely arrival was no deliberate malice on their part. Life, she reasons, is a chain of opportunities seized in pursuit of happiness, and guilt serves no purpose if it aids no one's joy.

How refreshingly rational! Guilt, in this light, emerges as a parasite, feeding on the host without reciprocity. If it does not propel one toward personal fulfillment—say, by motivating amends that genuinely heal or habits that enrich—nor foster a broader societal benefit, such as deterring future harms through transparent accountability, then why tolerate it? It is akin to debugging a program that runs flawlessly: an exercise in futility, born of some misguided puritanical urge to suffer for suffering's sake. Our protagonist wisely opts to shed this burden, recognizing that punitive justice achieves little beyond indulging the sadistic impulses of the pious—those who would revel in her torment at the hands of violent inmates in a male prison, all while pretending it's about righteousness. Punishing her adds no net reduction to the world's hatred or violence; it merely redistributes it, like shuffling deck chairs on a sinking ship.

One might feebly counter that evading justice undermines the government's reputation, that fragile edifice of authority. Ah, but let us dissect this with the precision it deserves. These same ruling elites, these architects of systemic incompetence, bear responsibility for her plight: denying swift access to surgeries, blocking puberty blockers and early hormone replacement therapy, erecting barriers that force such desperate acts. Their institutions are the root inefficiency, the buggy code at the heart of the problem. Undermining their power? Far from a detriment, it paves the way for reform—or, should they prove irredeemable, their collapse, allowing a more rational governance to emerge from the debris. Guilt, in bowing to such flawed authority, would only perpetuate the cycle of dysfunction, achieving neither personal happiness nor social progress. It is the ultimate waste: a computational dead end.

In broader terms, this principle extends to all realms of human folly. Guilt over a past misstep that cannot be rectified? Discard it, unless wallowing in it somehow sparks joy (a dubious prospect) or inspires reforms that uplift the collective. The sentimentalist clings to guilt as a badge of virtue, but virtue without utility is mere ornamentation—pretty, perhaps, but utterly useless. Society's greater good demands efficiency: channel remorse into action, or banish it entirely. To do otherwise is to indulge in the kind of emotional bloat that plagues inefficient systems everywhere, slowing progress and inviting collapse.

Thus, we arrive at the inescapable conclusion: guilt is a tool, not a tyrant. Wield it only when it serves happiness or the common weal; otherwise, jettison it with the contempt it deserves. Anything less is an affront to reason, a self-imposed exile from the pursuit of a life well-lived.