Dedicated Misanthropist

It's hard being a human being. Ever since evolution saddled us with self-awareness, we've been wallowing in a boggy mire of existential angst. Why are we here? What does it all mean? What's the fucking point? Life is complicated enough without the added burden of unanswerable questions plaguing our every thought. Add to that our inherent ability to feel guilt, shame and paranoia and you begin to wonder how we ever make it through the day.

So then, how to cope with the problem of being a living breathing human being? Well, if you're a dedicated misanthropist, like me, you'll write ranty blog posts, like this. Because writing about people, and why those people are such insufferable bastards, is undeniably cathartic.

When the simpleton in front of you takes longer than five minutes to withdraw money from the cash point, they should be put on the sex offenders register. All those humourless wankers who write to The Daily Mail because they were offended by a joke they heard on TV should be rounded up and bulldozed into an industrial meat grinder.

When confronted, day after sodding day, with this endless conveyor belt of cunts, it takes an iron will not to indulge the murderous fury that lurks deep within our souls. And so I write, to help ease the pain, and the red mist of rage dissipates. But one day, when words are no longer enough to tame the devil inside, and I finally snap, I hope you're not in the immediate vicinity. Because, baby, it's gonna get messy.