Now, this is the part of the post where all of you sweet, caring people think to yourself "But AJ... hate is such a strong word!"
I agree! It is rather strong. Still, seems insufficient to encompass the visceral, heart-wrenching, marrow-vibrating sensation of pure and utter disgust most of my fellow students and employees stir within me. Perhaps an addendum should exist with it, like hate "with the white-hot fury of 1000 suns".
Many of these people are actually making society a worse place to live with their continued existence. Most, I wouldn't even piss on if they were on fire.
I urge you, fair reader, to not think for a moment that I am declaring I am a better person than those I'm describing. Well... am I actually better? Likely no, but it would be pretty difficult to be worse. Mayhaps we should be setting the bar slightly higher, hmm?
We all remember my repeated rants about my peers... how fucked their priorities are, how skewed their perception of reality, how aggrandising and self-important, how unbelievably vain and self-centred. I could go off again, detailing their compulsion to thrust image after image of themselves on any and all passers-by, desperate for the slightest inkling of approval and acknowledgement that our faulty schooling system has taught them they must seek in earnest. Their persistant belief that they are special, that they somehow deserve more from this spinning rock covered with precocious apes than any other petty primate.
Yes, I could complain about how they pretend to worship a god, get high-and-mighty when they meet those who opt not to, and then spend 24 hours a day in fact worshipping THEMSELVES moreso than any selected deity... but that would just be a waste of these precious creative hours.
You see, this hatred of the peers, the transparency of the flacid and empty academic system, these things BURN deep inside this fair bosom of mine. Oh reader, I am driven with an almost supernatural inhuman fire to vivisect the faults and follies of the above with fiction, to shit-hammer keys until a nugget of truth can be gleaned from the purposefully-archaic narrative style to which this particular night has lead me.
I'm reminded of a story I heard recently:
A gentleman wanted to write a novel. He knew he had no time for a novel, he had bills to pay and a family to support, yet he was driven to write it anyways. He wanted this novel to implicate and expose aspects of society that seemed... well, wrong and perverted to him. He knew such a novel would likely not be published, never garner a dime, yet he was driven to write it anyways. He did so, losing his job and his wife in the process.
While relaying the story of her ex-husband's obsession and subsequent failure to a friend, the woman was asked "Why on Earth didn't he write a novel about... detectives! Or, or waitresses in love? Something that might sell..?"
She only replied "Oh... well, I suppose he never got angry with detectives or waitresses."
This needlessly-lengthy post was brought to you by the novel "Emma" and the letter F.