The cunt next door is listening to his shitty drug music again. My disgust for him is primarily born out of the fact that he wears flip-flops, but on a whole, every aspect of his dim life leaves me nauseated, from his constant drug-induced chatter to the sounds he listens to while blabbering with those he invites around to waste time with because there’s simply nothing else to do. Little about his life speaks to me of poetry other than the profound horror of it all, and nothing whatsoever speaks of the redeeming nature of the soul. It’s all just surface because surface is all he will ever understand. He’s not alone, though. Most his age are like that around here. Surface is worshipped so obediently. Anything deeper is too suspicious by far, and not only that, it requires people to think, to question themselves, and that won’t do at all. I don’t wish death on the cokehead. I’m sure he’s not a bad person or anything like that, but I certainly don’t believe he’s worth saving. I don’t believe there many out there at all that are worth saving. Especially not those that wear flip-flops and do coke all night long and have no art to show for it. What a cunt. Is that word offensive anymore? Is it sexist? I’ve no idea. The guy is a cunt, though. No other word seems appropriate. I’m sure he calls me one, too. I’m sure whenever he looks out his window and sees me coming back from work he thinks, what a bearded, ginger cunt. He most likely thinks I’m peculiar as well, which is true, of course. He can have that one. I’ll let him. I’ll be the bigger man. Which I am, I’ll have you know.