Attack of the gluten intolerant sex addicts

If it's Wednesday it must be Morford on afflictions you might have but probably not. Some great muffin porn too!

How much do you think you know for sure? How many of your personal afflictions and torments, ailments and woes are indisputably real, I mean obviously, I mean there is no doubt I feel this way because, well, we are nothing if not in love with our own creations, all the conditions we quietly like to invent, and then claim we are powerless to control?

Are you gluten intolerant? Pretty sure? Feels sort of right? Are you a fresh recruit in the upstart army of bread-bashers and pasta-cringers right now animating a very excitable multibillion-dollar industry, even though it was a zero-dollar industry just a decade ago because, after all, it’s bread. Wheat. Next to water, dark chocolate and latex fetish porn, it’s sort of a staple. Just ask Jesus.
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What else you got? Cigarettes? Perfume sensitivity? ADHD? Facebook addiction? Fibromyalgia? Sex addiction? Conspiracy theories? Global warming denier? Can’t bear crowds, sunlight, salt? Are you sure? Of course you are. The more sure you are, the more you will seek selective validation of that certainty, the more real it is, and the more impossible it will become to believe otherwise. As a wildly ego-centric species ever disconnected from Source, this sort of self-duping is easy. It’s kind of what we do.

Look, I know how you feel. I do it, too. And it’s obnoxious to be told some of your ailments might be illusions, that you’ve made them up, that you’re in full control of their lifespan and many only exist because you really want them to exist, for whatever reason – attention, love, pity, medication, tribal association, a community of like-minded souls united by suffering, if not irony. Our victimhood gives us power! Our martyrdom gives us identity! We hereby sacrifice all hot, delicious sourdough baguettes toward the death of Monsanto!
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Hey, it feels good to be sure of something, no? A life raft in an angry ocean? To be able to pick and choose your own set of ailments and struggles, enemies and perceived threats? This is, perhaps, our last true freedom, a semblance of control in a world gone mad. It is somehow perversely reassuring to say, “This is what I am, suffer, endure, struggle with, am sickened (or conversely, am given joy and love and acceptance) by, and no one – not science, not evidence, not being tragically deprived forevermore of insanely gorgeous muffins with a soft-boiled egg inside – had better try and take that away.”

Really. But are you sure?

I'm sure my ears plug up easy and I get jock itch. If there are groups for those, I'm not going...