Mirror mirror

Someone took out my driver's side car mirror one evening in the wake of a snowstorm last week. I found the wrecked remains of it on the ground the next morning. There was no note, of course, or anything else in the way of apology or acknowledgement. Just the evidence that some filthy fuckface had made his mark on someone else's life in a way that is all too typical of the diseased members of this feckless species.

I take solace in knowing that, unless this person dies suddenly -- a statistically unlikely scenario, but one I can passively root for -- he will be lying in his own excrement one day, enfeebled by age or disease or both, and terrified beyond measure because he fears, correctly, that there is no afterlife and that that he will soon be nothing but a decomposing, stinking, and forgettable mess. His stupid brain will race with panic as he accepts that he was a failure for decades on end and a morbid stain on an already putrid world, and that people only wanted him for whatever money he had, just as he only bothered with others so that he could try to divert resources from them in turn.

Hopefully, he will be overwhelmed by knowing that, inasmuch as anyone will remember his sad and ugly face at all, he will be recalled as utterly stupid, replaceable, and unlovable, as is true of almost all of us. His ebbing spirit will fray as he grasps that his existence was as unsolicited as it was pointless and undeserved. If he has children, he will have unquestionably helped fuck them up and turn them into whatever gibbering inadequates they became in their own right; if he had a job, he was probably a substandard employee who could and should have been replaced by either a machine or a literal moron. He should have become an incidentally miscarried splotch of mucus or an actively aborted zygote, embryo, or, for all I genuinely care, 38-week-old perfectly viable foetus. He may have been a country music fan.

To those of us who fail to hold a great deal of concern about whether we make it through any given day alive, annoyances are almost worse than crises because they aren't sufficiently distracting. When I was routinely setting fire to whatever prosperity I had managed to achieve in life, I rarely had time to stop and ponder the absurdity of this fucking circus. Consider the sheer lunacy of supposedly sentient primates regarding this whole awful shitshow of humanity and actually thinking, ceaselessly by the millions: "Let's bring another human victim or two into this fucking nightmare! We don't have the couple hundred thousand it'll cost us, but who cares because vanity!" Now that I am sober and stable, the same basic abhorrence for simply being here and having to participate in this ruinous scrum (I expect to die by my own hand someday, just not yet) that I have always held is a more insistent force, as I am no longer trying to assemble the elements of basic survival.

In short, if nothing else, I comprehend why I drank so destructively all along: I don't like being here, and I don't like the way I or pretty much anyone else behaves. Yes, I have a special distaste for certain themes and practices, notably toxic Christianity (right down to the fact that these malformed dunces seem to be incompetent at everything besides breeding, that great equalizer, the one thing abject fish-eyed dipshits can do as well as anyone else). People as a rule are incompetent, life is a series of annoyances, and no one should be sorry about the prospect of leaving the world.

This has nothing to do with running other than giving me reason to note that running is the only thing that takes some of the sting out of being here. I don't even have a difficult life and never have, and my unhappiness today stems entirely from my own bad wiring. But I didn't fucking ask to be here and I deeply resent ever having taken part in this shit, and I offer no apologies for saying as much. People and their habits as a rule are fucking disgusting.