Originally, this collection of writing was a shout into the void, or maybe a long, drawn-out moan. Or something. The very, very, very loose concept was that the author would 'recover' from (their) misanthropic state and document that through the art of the word. Fat chance.

Turns out, people are kinda stupid, selfish and uncompromising in singing their life song in the key of me. Sorry to say, but the misanthropes of the world are actually right.

Don't get me wrong: I no longer care. You want to cheat on your spouse? Go ahead: it's stupid and dishonest, but expected. Want to abuse the good intent of your physician by mixing those SSRIs with a nightly bottle of Cab Sauv (as if saying the whole goddamn name is too hard, you lazy cow), go right ahead - it's no surprise. Going to cut me off on the highway when we're already going 85 and give me a look like I'm driving backwards in the left lane? Have it, you low-life, middle-class-imperfect, debt-ridden, lying f*ck. I've had enough of all of you.

So, rather than "recover" from my misanthropy, I'm going to drive it hard and put it away wet, as the cowboys used to say. And, get the hell off my lawn.