Truncated version of my life.
If there is a God. He hates me.
He can’t kill me…no, that would be too easy…the small happinesses I’m allowed to experience are simply to elevate my mood to a higher plateau, so that the fall from it will be all the more vicious. I have to stay alive, just so that I can endure more punishment. I’m cursed to continue this damnable existence, for the sole reason that it cannot end. The only things that my fate allows me to accomplish are for the greater end of my suffering; small deeds paving the way, ensuring greater failure.
In short, good things only happen to me in order for the bad things to take place.
Most people who read this will acknowledge that my life isn’t that bad; and from the outside, It seems I really have nothing to complain about… That’s the whole point. How can someone who has everything he needs POSSIBLY have anything to complain about? And if he did, wouldn’t that make him petty and end up making him feel guilty? Some people are honestly miserable; They are tied up somewhere, starving to death, being anally raped with red hot pokers while watching their loved ones being boiled alive. In that kind of comparative light, what is so bad about my relatively posh life? …..just wait. Which is worse? Immediate, painful extermination; “Getting it over with,” or a slow, lingering, festering deterioration?
Call it cynicism, call it pessimism, call it defeatism, call it whatever -ism you want.
In the meantime, don’t bother me. I’m unhappy.