Regular readers and friends — and most people who read this regularly are friends — often sense the tug of that black hole of cynicism that beats in my breast and sucks at my soul: a dark and dense mass of pessimism that draws all happiness and cheer into the crushing gravity of misanthropy.
I don’t know what exactly turned me into a cynic: maybe it was a miserable childhood raised by self absorbed drug addicted parents; maybe it was my grade school experience as a highly intelligent and sensitive faggot who was abused and ridiculed because of his small stature and difference; maybe it was facing a life-threatening cancer at the age of 25. Or maybe it’s because it has been so long since I last felt the caress of love.
The simple truth that life sucks — and that it always has and always will — is a realization that I came to at a very early age. Subsequent experience has only clothed this cynicism with a sturdy cloak of pessimism.
Maybe that’s why I’m so popular at cocktail parties.