Of course, daddy overwhelmingly dearest, you and I both know that the self-titled, proud apex hominids of this Earth only offer a negligible gain in gigacalories; and most of the "Homo Superior" or "Inhomo Supremis'' specimens would be comparably light snacks, less than a percentage of our recommended daily intake. Even the entirety of the species and its sub-species, to put it to humans' clumsy metaphors, are less than a particularly noisy and spicy grain of sesame on a jumbo cheeseburger. They're easily outmatched by tones and gigatons of domesticated livestock; the 70-times larger collections of deliciously lively insect colonies; tasty masses of underlying algae forming its lettuce... And still, spending most of my time among the conscious hominid fauna, and having most of my discussions with them, spending hours in secret protecting them from extraplanetary threats, these sentient lifeforms, worryingly, end up at the focus of many of my cravings. I wish I could control my hyperfixation, render it something relatively harmless as romance stories, figurine-collecting, skipping comets across uninhabited systems, or macrame; but no, my waveform is coded at the very basest level such that I keep coming back to the urge to devour.
So , I am A Cosmic Familyman?
Sci-fi · TheEldritchPookie
detail