But what I really came here for today was to write the following piece of mental masturbation:
Deep obsessive hatred and why cyanide isn't the cure
So anyone's who had to talk to me for longer than fifteen minutes or so recently has probably heard me piss and moan about my mother's boyfriend. To keep things brief, he's the worst kind of idiot: the kind that honestly believes he's smarter than everyone else.
I hate him. Everything from his chin-less, misshapen potato head to his casual chauvinism to his constant monotone droning. And it's real hatred: every time he gets behind the wheel of his car I hope he won't be coming back because of a horrible accident that will kill him, after which he will go to Hell where his punishment will be that he has to listen to himself talk for the rest of eternity. The fact that my grandfather, who ran enjoyed sports and looked after himself, died at 74 from cancer, while mother's boyfriend, an alcoholic smoker whose only nod in the direction of good health are placebos and painkillers, is still cancer-free and in apparently good health tells me that there is no justice in the universe and no God.
See what I mean about obsessive hatred? It's keeping me up at night.
Cyanide isn't the cure, though. No. Because you see, the sentence for murder here is twenty-five years.
I'm 22 now. In 25 years, I will be in my late forties, with hopefully fewer than ten cats and my own studio. In 25 years, the moron will probably be in a nursing home, shitting and drooling on himself and pinching the bums of young nurses torn between feeling pity and revulsion for him. With the alcoholism, I give his brain another 5-10 years.
Besides which, he's not worth 25 years of my life.
And that's why cyanide isn't the cure. Hopefully moving far far away is. I hear Siberia is nice.