In many ways, grasping the infinitesimal speck humanity constitutes is a source of great comfort. Even while I am in the midst of recording vocals in the studio or appearing on a daytime television program, it is admittedly seductive to stop for a moment and stare unblinking into the void and consider that, in terms of the ever-widening parabola made by the imperceptible slowing of Earth’s axis, soon everything—this planet, the moon, myself, the Milky Way galaxy, Usher, and all of your pointless mooning and disdain—will be forever silenced by the unstoppable spiral into total entropy.
Even the faintest memory of my dear, sweet friend Ellen DeGeneres will be swallowed by the cataclysmic crush of all matter collapsing in on itself.
I suppose we’ve come to the point where we should just plainly state the ugly truth of all this: If you expend any energy at all either obsessively doting on me or hating me with the very fiber of your being, then I’m sad to say you are squandering your brief window as a cognizant being in this universe. Unfortunately, I cannot tell you how better to use your comically tiny duration of sentience. Perhaps tell your family you love them; ponder the intricate beauty of a dew-flecked spiderweb; listen to Nicki Minaj’s very good studio debut Pink Friday. In the end, however, none of these things will matter all that much either, not in the great and widening chasm of geological time—let alone when one considers the age of the cosmos from which it has sprung. But maybe in these ways you can draw a brief moment of respite from the existential dread. Ultimately, I believe that this is all one can reasonably hope for.
There is no God.