That there comes a point at which a man decides that he must either hope or recede. A point at which he finds himself either living for the far-off day to come or hopelessly writhing in the despair that the world will swallow him before that day is to be come.
you do think i'm stupid, dont you. you have to, or at least find something wrong with me. there's something wrong with me isnt there? i'm defecting, malfunctioning in some way in the machine of mankind, i have a crooked cog, a loose screw somewhere i can't reach with my fat little hands, don't i? everyone does. everyone has parts of them they can't reach that eat away at them, that's why we go and look for people to help us, to touch us the way we need to be touched so we can feel fixed and the technical knowledge of these inner workings is called love: the ultimate blueprint to fulfillment and happiness, the euphoria and nostalgia is a side-effect of having nothing wrong with you, everything running smoothly, all green-lights and such and god DAMNIT i hate you all so much. i hate you all so damn much i could just explode, i could, and i'd wish you'd eat my little pieces so i could fester inside of you and whisper to your gut the way mine has wretched for every betrayal against me, every false word of promise, of happiness, of affection towards me, because in the long run, in the big, wide, long run, we all die. all of us. every last little shit on the face of the planet will die, and every death will be preceded by either happiness or misery. now guess. guess, you slimy little nothings, squirming around in each other, i dare you to wonder at what good old me will be thinking when i bite the bullet. if you're thick, let me relieve the cerebral pressure for you:

i hate you all.
i hate all of you disgusting little things.