Throwing Poo

NOTE: Because I have long since been abandoned by my friends and no longer enjoy activities of any kind (damn you, existentialism), for me long weekends end up being a time of excessive reflection.  As such, my posts this week will probably be a little more personal and a little less amusing (meaning, less of the laughing with me and more of the laughing at me).  The good news is that I'm flying to LA for the week, so things should get superficial again in no time.

Lately I find myself turning into a contradiction.  On one hand, I hate people.  For the most part, I find them to be self-involved, materialistic, inconsiderate, greedy little suckholes who are completely void of common decency.  While this hatred is admittedly fueled in part by my own manifestation of these characteristics (and the subsequent self-loathing), it is nevertheless both visible and enduring. 

People say that enjoying life is about the little things.  That may be.  What I am certain of, though, is that it is the little things that make me want to execute a motherfucker.   For example, if I hold open a door for you and don't hear a "thank you," it takes every fiber of my will not to kick out your walker and slam the door on your colostomy bag.  I don't care if you are my grandmother, you ungrateful whore.

On the other hand - the one without the blood stains -  I seem to be mysteriously evolving (or devolving) into an emotionally gullible schoolgirl who can be manipulated at will.  These days I rarely get through a movie without something making me water up.  I'm not just talking about "Old Yeller" here.  In the past three weeks we've seen The Illusionist, Invincible and Little Miss Sunshine  - none of which would be classified as a tearjerker - and each time I leaked.  Hell, the other day I got choked up during a commercial.  A fucking commercial!  Like a case of uncontrollable flatulence, it is embarrassing and must be blamed.

So I'm trying to make sense of a mind-set that is simultaneously free-basing cynicism and searching for a big group hug.  Is it that my heart has become so thoroughly frozen that even the slightest touch of manufactured sentiment will crack a piece off and send it falling to the floor to melt?  Or is it that my misanthropy is manufactured (because it's both fun AND cool) and my subconscious is fighting to release itself, like a butterfly from a cocoon (or a dung beetle from a giant pile of steaming rhino shit)?  I'm not sure and I don't think a fancy new sports car is going to solve this one. 

Then again, maybe it's just testicular cancer.