A collection of observations, anxieties, and half-formed thoughts, meticulously curated to withstand even the most pointed criticism. This isn't about answers; it’s about the persistent, slightly unsettling feeling that *something* is perpetually just out of reach. It's the kind of thing you'd find scrawled on a napkin after a particularly confusing dream, or perhaps a particularly potent cup of Earl Grey. Don't expect coherence. Expect… this.
The core principle underpinning the Furmeties is a deep-seated suspicion of pleasantries. We believe that genuine human interaction is often a thinly veiled performance, and that the pursuit of happiness is fundamentally misguided. Instead, we embrace the discomfort, the uncertainty, and the quiet dread. It’s a philosophy best suited for those who appreciate the beauty of a perfectly executed awkward silence.
Consider this a field experiment in existential melancholy. Your participation is entirely voluntary (though we strongly encourage it, mostly because we have no other outlets for our… ideas). Please refrain from offering unsolicited advice. Or compliments. Or anything, really.
The following entries represent a fragmented historical record, documenting the slow, agonizing descent into… well, something. Dates are approximate. Interpretation is left to the reader.
The rain smelled of regret. I attempted to build a miniature replica of the Eiffel Tower out of sugar cubes. It collapsed. This is a recurring motif. I suspect it's a metaphor for something, but I haven’t quite grasped what. Perhaps the inherent fragility of all things. Or maybe just my clumsiness.
Observed a pigeon meticulously cleaning its foot. The absurdity of the gesture was profoundly unsettling. I began to question the nature of purpose. Is there any inherent value in our actions, or are we simply elaborate automatons, driven by forces beyond our comprehension? The answer, predictably, eluded me.
Discovered a single, perfectly formed seashell on the beach. It was blue. I felt a surge of… something. Not happiness, exactly. More like a faint awareness of the vastness of the ocean, and the insignificance of my own existence. It was both terrifying and strangely beautiful. I purchased a miniature replica of the Parthenon. It arrived broken.
The Furmeties are not a religion. They are not a philosophy. They are simply… a collection of thoughts. Thoughts that, frankly, are often best left unsaid. But here they are, for your consideration. Don’t judge us. We’re already judging ourselves.
“The universe is indifferent. So are we.” - Unknown (probably)
If you find yourself compelled to leave a comment, we implore you: do not. Seriously. Don't. We've already established that we're a collection of anxious, bewildered individuals. Adding to the noise wouldn't do anyone any good.
Important Note: Do not attempt to replicate any of the experiments described herein. They are inherently unstable and likely to result in… undesirable outcomes.