By Christopher Munroe
I hate them.
I hate them all.
These fucking people with their fucking love, celebrating as though it made them special.
It does not make them special, they are not special. Nobody is special, and nothing means anything.
But you can’t tell them that, because they must celebrate love.
“Ooooooh!” they say, “Surely my perfect love will protect me from the icy hand of death!”
Nothing will protect you from the icy hand of death.
And as I sit here, in my turtleneck and beret, smoking long, black cigarettes, I hold them in nothing but the most abject of contempt…