I hate you.
Every morning I make my way through corridors lined with people poring over page 3 celebrity gossip, walking in a line like little red ants, making plans to watch the movie next weekend, sending each other forwarded emails with pictures of manicured lawns and amusement parks. Ayurvedic spas and honeymoon destinations. Obedient little ants. How I wish you could see what you look like when you all line up in front of the coffee vending machine when the clock strikes 11, like monkeys in some space experiment. Globalifuckingsation. The triumph of the Mob over the Individual. The next great revolution of stupor and cerebral degradation. A world ruled by greedy swine. They are everywhere - in lobbies, in offices, in cities... At nights I see them coming out of every hole in the wall; hungry cockroaches pouring out of ventilator ducts and manhole covers, crawling out tin cans and crowding the streets, tripping and falling over one another as they try to climb up your legs, making it difficult to breathe. I wake up in a cold sweat, gasping.
How many animals have to be slaughtered to keep you clothed and well fed? How much grains and starch, and animal carcasses and birds with their wings flapping, have to be flung into the furnace that is your metabolism? All to feed the enormous beast whose sole occupation is to stare dead ahead with a blank face and a mouth gaping wide open. I hope you meet them one day - the animals you tortured and murdered to appease your hunger. I hope they come back to haunt you in your afterlife. Your forwarded emails, little trinkets, junk beads and toy rifles. How your eyes light up when you see those little patterns of snakes and ladders, you sneaky little morons. Patterns that are simple and easy to remember. A mind obsessed with trivia. To me, you are the lowest form of life. A degree of survival that is lower than bacteria, rolling in slime, wading in putrefied sludge, unaware that the filth it is eating is its own. You are a slave. Of your life and your job and your career. You are nothing more than a common slave. Push a button, Get a treat and do your worthless bit for a multibillion dollar corporate cause you neither know nor understand. You are the worst kind of slave - one who doesn't even know he's a slave. And that's why no revolution can ever touch you; no act of defiance can ever ignite a spark in your catatonic mind, because you truly believe you are secure.
You disgusting, impeccable slaves!
You marry. You get a raise. You buy a house. This is your life. You will live in the one of the thousand featureless suburban colonies. This is all your sad life will ever amount to. I hope for your sake you die lying face down in a gutter somewhere, in a pool of blood and shattered teeth, choking on your own bile and vomit. I hope for your sake.
See you in hell.
(No more caffeine, I promise.)