Why Biology Is a Shithole

Biology—at least as it defines human existence—is a rigged, frustratingly limited system. It's a shithole not just because it breaks down, decays, and suffers, but because the very machinery it equips you with is so pathetically crude for interacting with reality.

Pathetic Outputs: Hands, Legs, Mouth

Take your "outputs"—the stuff biology gives you to manipulate the world. Two hands, five fingers each, and all they're good for is grabbing, poking, and fumbling objects at your own scale. You can't manipulate anything smaller than a crumb without tools. You can't reach into the atomic or molecular level; forget about fixing a broken cell or rearranging molecules with your fingers. All the miracles of modern medicine and technology are just clumsy hacks, indirect workarounds that highlight how little direct control you actually have.

Two legs—just for moving your meat-body around, one step at a time. Slow, tiring, fragile. Can't fly, can't teleport, can't phase through walls. The universe is vast, but you're stuck waddling around like an overgrown flightless bird.

A mouth: half its function is just keeping you alive by shoveling in fuel (food and air), and the other half is "communication"—a laughably slow and lossy process. You'll never express most of what you feel or think. Speech bottlenecks your mind to a trickle, and even then, language is an endless source of misinterpretation and ambiguity.

Writing is even slower. You scratch out symbols, one after another, to pass along ideas that get mangled and diluted with every retelling. Gesture and body language are even worse—primitive signals that barely get your intent across.

Garbage Inputs: Senses That Don't Sense Much

You're not just limited in what you can do; you're crippled in what you can perceive.

Eyes: You get a tiny sliver of the electromagnetic spectrum—visible light. You can't see radio waves, microwaves, infrared, ultraviolet, X-rays, gamma rays. Can't see atoms, can't see molecules, can't see the quantum world. The vast majority of reality is permanently hidden from you. Even with microscopes and high-tech gadgets, you're just getting processed, indirect hints—never the raw thing itself.

Ears: Again, a narrow window. You can't hear ultrasounds, infrasounds, or the cosmic background hum. Anything too low or too high in frequency might as well not exist to you. There are vibrations, patterns, and signals passing through you constantly—completely invisible to your awareness.

Nose: Humans get a few thousand chemicals, and that's it. A dog can sense a world you'll never know. Smell is a blunt, vague tool—nowhere near the molecular precision or sensitivity that would make it truly useful.

Touch: Your skin can detect pressure, pain, temperature, but only in the broadest sense. You'll never feel a single atom, or know if a cell in your body is dying until it's way too late. Pain is blunt, unspecific, and slow. Most of your body's suffering goes unnoticed until it's catastrophic.

Taste: A last vestigial sense—just five basic types, barely enough to tell "safe" from "poison." It's not there to delight, just to stop you from dying.

Blind, Deaf, and Dumb to Reality

You are, at best, a crude observer, groping around in a pitch-black universe, missing most of what's out there. There's an entire reality under your nose—subatomic particles, quantum weirdness, electromagnetic storms, even microscopic creatures living on your own skin—that you will never, ever directly perceive or control.

Even your best attempts at understanding the universe—science, technology, philosophy—are just desperate efforts to paper over these massive gaps. Your instruments translate data into colors, shapes, and sounds your brain can process, but it's always through layers of abstraction. You never get the real thing. You never will.

Prisoners of Flesh

The final insult is your utter lack of agency over your own biology. You can't change your body at will. If you're sick or broken, you wrap it up and hope. You can't regrow a limb, can't edit your genes, can't delete pain, anxiety, or suffering from your mind. You're locked in flesh pincers, stuck in a fragile, decaying machine that's barely suited to survival.

Conclusion: Biology Is a Bad Deal

All told, biology isn't some miracle. It's a deeply flawed, frustratingly limited mess. Every moment is defined by what you can't do, can't see, can't fix, can't reach. You're locked in a meat cage with shoddy tools and broken sensors, a cosmic joke designed to remind you how little you matter in the scheme of things.

If there's a hell, it's biological. And you're living in it.

Outputs

Two hands: Can only manipulate what they physically grasp. Can't reach the microscopic, can't move mountains, limited by strength, dexterity, and size.

Two legs: Only for locomotion—slow, tiring, limited range, can't fly or teleport or move through walls.

A mouth: Used for eating (fueling), breathing (basic survival), and talking (slow, lossy communication).

Inputs

Eyes: Only pick up a narrow band of electromagnetic radiation (visible light), can't see the microscopic, the distant, the hidden, or anything outside their narrow spectrum.

Ears: Limited hearing range, can't pick up infrasound, ultrasound, or quantum-level vibrations.

Nose: Can detect a few thousand chemical compounds, but nothing compared to what a dog can smell, and nothing at a molecular or atomic resolution.

Touch (skin): Localized, not precise—can't sense individual particles, pressure is relative, pain is blunt and nonspecific.

Taste: Barely useful for anything except telling "safe" from "poison" at a basic level—limited to a handful of taste types (sweet, salty, bitter, sour, umami).

Eyes: You can't see atoms, molecules, or the quantum world. There's an entire reality beneath the threshold of human vision—subatomic particles, wave functions, strange physics—that you will never directly see. Even microscopes and instruments are just imperfect translators, still bound by what your brain can interpret.

Hands: You can't touch or change the world at the smallest scale. Your fingers are blunt tools compared to the scale of molecules or atoms. You can't just reach in and rearrange matter or heal yourself at a cellular level. You're forced to use crude tools and machines to barely scratch the surface.

Speech: Even the fastest talkers can only manage a couple hundred words a minute. Most thoughts are lost, simplified, or never expressed at all.

Writing: Slow, painstaking, error-prone. Takes forever to get a complex idea across.

Gestures, body language: Even slower, and way more ambiguous.

Hands:

You're stuck with flesh pincers. No matter how much you want to reach into the quantum foam or tinker at the nanoscale, you're stuck grabbing, pushing, and poking objects at the human scale.

Fine manipulation? Sure, but only for a narrow band of objects—too big, too small, too hot, too cold, too toxic, too far, and you're out of luck.

Forget changing your own biology, healing your body, or rebuilding broken systems. At best, you wrap a bandage or swallow a pill and hope for the best.