My philosophy is to live and let live, and so when I occasionally have to rebuff the eager attempts of various characters around me to have their unique, shining personalities embraced by yours truly, I start to get a little bit bitter about this 'brotherhood of man' nonsense that John Lennon and similar hedonists seemed to blabber on about endlessly.
Is it so much to ask, really, to be left to wallow in my own misery, like a decapitated roach running around in its own filth for a predestined amount of time? I am like that pitiful insect, and no, I don't mind if you watch me speed from point A to point B aimlessly, but for the love of God, please cease and desist with all efforts to make my journey as carefree as possible. People are constantly hoping to alleviate one of the most simple sources of pleasure, that of whining. All too often, a complaint is perceived as a cry for help; a description of a situation that could be remedied if someone else would just jump in and provide their “useful” guidance.
The apartment in which I sleep presently emits an odour so notorious that neighbours from three blocks away will stop by to have a pleasant chat about the egregious scents for which my habitat would appear to be responsible. There is always that pained look of concern in their eyes, but it is only there to mask a hideous judgment which is cast as soon as the smell enters one's awareness. Everybody will deny it up and down, but the first thing that comes to their hateful little minds is something along the lines of, 'if I ever lived here, I would probably have to kill myself.'
Perhaps it is that unfortunate conclusion that motivates all of these contrived efforts, but at the end of the day, I am wholly uninterested in removing my amateur taxidermy collection from the premises. The sanctimonious suggestion to take rodent corpses to someone who actually knows what to do with them is just another thing that makes me sick of people. It can be quite stressful with all of these mindless cretins nosing their way around my apartment, making offhand remarks like 'You should really clean that' or 'How do you live like this?' It's not easy for a struggling, unemployed, recreational taxidermist to make it in a big city, but no, I just have to keep putting up with this humiliation.
For you see, jaded as all of this may sound, I still consider myself an idealist, and so I will continue to get out of bed each morning, at least until the emphysema kicks in, at which point I might give up and remain glued to the television screen for the remainder of my putrid existence, but you can't plan that sort of thing, and God knows I have spent the last couple of decades trying.
If you live in the area, maybe you could swing by and make some derogatory comments about my bathroom sanitation. It might just be the most exciting thing that will happen to me that day, so don't skip out on a chance to make a difference. Funny thing about stuffed, rotting animals, which is that try as I might they are absolute rubbish at holding down a stimulating conversation. Attract maggots, check, but I probably need you spiteful pricks rummaging around through my personal business after all if I want something I can truly continue to complain about.
