I have noticed that the simple moral slip of allowing hate into my life has made everything simply awful.
Everything? Awful? Really?
The loyal reader may judge for themself:
1. I was given a dreadful book to read for my MSc class. I mean really, really dire.
2. The other night, my bath wasn’t hot enough.
3. Just now, my chai milkshake was too thin.
It appears the universe is suggesting I might rather prefer not to hate.
The eagle-eyed among you might be wondering what happened to my resolve to be simply kind. I wonder myself. Can it really have been so completely thwarted, so thoroughly subverted by nothing more than a whiney voice, a gawpy stare and a shocking lack of competence?
Looks that way…
Let me marry that larynx, those eyes and that brain, for by them, like a bickering couple of 60 years standing, I could define my existence and find a reason to go on living until my 90s.