I’m in pain, my friends. Not the Oh My God, If I Don’t Take My Pills, Someone Is Going To Get Their Heads Kicked In kind of pain. It’s more the life-force sucking, soul-destroying Pain In The Bollocks kind of pain. I suffer for my art.
The hell with that – I suffer for being me. Not everybody ‘gets’ me, you see. To some, I come across as being a smarmy insufferable know-it-all. To others, I am an introvert who longs for nothing more than to sit quietly in a darkened room and contemplate life, the universe and time-travel paradoxes. But in reality, I am somewhere between the two.
I shouldn’t really care what people think of me, though. Those who know me well enough either think highly of me or are of the reasoned opinion that my company is not their preferred cup of tea. Which is fine by me, really, because they’ve at least thought about it. Rather than assuming I’m an insufferable know-it-all, they know by experience that this is what I am.
I admire people who form an opinion based on evidence, incontrovertible or otherwise. To those who go with the flow and still think Flat Earth Theory is viable, I offer nothing but my considered scorn.
You see, ultimately, other people cause me pain. When I try to reason with them, they will invariably kick my head in. I suffer for being me. I think I’ll find solace in a nunnery.