So I write hunched over a keyboard, glaring at a loud flat screen display wishing I could think-write the shit that builds up in my head. No such luck today. The projection of thought leads to a slight headache or a need to use the facilities. I'll try again tomorrow after I've freshened my resolve.
I find those greater than or equal to five years younger than myself to be completely, irredeemably repulsive and worthy of much scorn and condescension. The real trouble with this feeling is that it surfaces often as I'm currently a full-time student surrounded by such people. Pain has apparently become my hobby because I find ways, both consciously and subconsciously, to inflict it upon myself. I think I'll start poking kids with needles so they stay away. You say share the love, I say why not the pain, too.
A bat moves in such an unfamiliar way that my naive human brain wants to call it unnatural. There's nothing more natural actually. My ignorance shames me, and the gliding shadow that mocks me from the its orbit around my kitchen light feels pity, I'm sure. I'm glad I showed that smug little shit the door.