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At funerals, I mostly feel envy and resentment.
Everyone gets up and says how great the dead person was: funny, clever, industrious, all the rest.
It’s boasting by proxy.
Everyone’s talking about the dead guy.
It’s tiresome and dull.
I look at how many people have turned up, then become infuriated at the thought nowhere near as many would come if I died.
I drift off during eulogies, wondering what people would say about me at my terminal moment.
I look around for those I know who might speak at my funeral, then think back to petty but bitter squabbles we have invariably had in the past, and become sure they would use their eulogy to wreak a sharp revenge by damning me with faint praise or making fun of that which I hold dear.
I can’t help but think that is exactly what they are thinking as they sit smugly in the funeral home chapel, casting sideways glances at me as they plan their postmortem verbal assault.
It outrages me.
I work in an office. On my desk I have model planes and cars, which I fancy make me seem unique to others.I always get to work on time, but not because I think it’s important.
I do it so I can say cruel things behind the backs of people who arrive late.I roll my eyes at the person I’m sitting next to; I quietly say "Oh, he’s late again"; I mention it to the boss, in case she didn’t notice; I point it out to other managerial staff; I keep a log of days they are late; I sarcastically say "Oh, you’re on time" when they are on time; I mock their excuses for being tardy; I describe them as rude and selfish; I look at my watch then stare at them as they trip shame-faced into the office.
I tell people I think they are "brave" for wearing whatever outfits they are wearing.
Other times I say "Oh, you’re wearing that outfit again."
I gave up smoking so I could look down on people who still do.
I play golf.
I get up very early in the morning and go to the gym.
I pick my nose in public.
In the door of my fridge are various chutneys in jars, all used only once.
I have no intention of opening them ever again, but refuse to throw them out until they have reached their use-by date, sometime in late 2019.
Then I’ll buy more, use them just once, and start the process again.I despise chutney.
I keep my underpants carefully folded in three neat piles based on their brand.
I use one brand for weekdays, another for weekends, and a third for the gym.
All my socks are the same, so they can’t get mixed up and folded with the wrong sock.
I have pet names for the shoes I wear to work. One of those names is Leathery Martin. The left shoe of that pair has a different name. I’m not going to tell you what it is.
My subconscious motivations are ruled by a complex web of petty jealousies.
I dislike people I judge to be more successful than me. I’m certain they got where they are not due to skill, but due to luck.
Where that is clearly not the case I believe they have the gift of the gab, and have talked themselves into their position.
If they have been successful in the music or the arts I claim such pursuits are beneath me.
I hate people who have written books, because I can’t be bothered putting in that much effort.
One of my favourite sensations is schadenfreude.
Observing the failures or humiliations of others serves as conclusive proof I have chosen the better lifestyle through superior intelligence and a superior morality.
I enjoy getting together with old school friends whose lives have been failures.
If they live in a caravan in a small country town, all the better.
I like passing on cruel gossip, but only gossip people already know about, perhaps something one or two weeks old; that way I can enjoy gossiping, and boring people with information they already know.
In the car, I listen to greatest hits-style radio shows that play hits from the 1950s.
I like feeling nostalgic about a time in which I didn’t exist.I don’t trust rhododendrons.
I dislike wealthy people, though if I won the lottery I would adopt their behaviours within seconds.
I would immediately forget what it was like before I was wealthy, and blame poverty on moral weakness.
I also blame illness on moral weakness.
If people had lived lives closer to my moral standards they would probably be healthy.
I actively disdain compassion.
When new people move into my street I hope against hope they will be from academia, or at the very worst, the commercial classes.
I consider spending money on other people a waste.
Perhaps my greatest fault is how much I enjoy my faults.
I like to sit quietly at night and consider them.
I like to run sequentially through how each has manifested itself in the day just gone, and lovingly remember the highlights.
I turn those highlights over in my mind while chewing food with my mouth open and making ghastly smacking noises with my lips.
I have no intention of changing.