Ah, a two day hangover. For all that this ‘hair of the dog’ idea is a proven method, it isn’t even a temporary cure. It steals time from your future self, it trades satisfaction now for mind-numbing misery later. Anyway, the day before yesterday I got drunk with an old friend and yesterday it was another friend’s 21st birthday party, so I’m feeling a little tender, deservingly so.

But I’ve been thinking a lot, over these past two days, about why I write, why I hate religion and spirituality (an argument that many of you will have, no doubt, heard before) and why I feel as though some worth can be found in suffering, in misery. It is the untenable duty, I tell myself, of the intellectual to be eternally horrified by the world around him, as it is the pleasure of the idiot to make the world horrific. Religion and belief, I tell myself, should be treated as any addiction, any mental illness, any reliance on an outward source for one to get through the day.

Literary Fiction, therefore, is where I must find solace, in the words of better men than I, those who knew things, or at least were capable of pretending to, which are denied to me. I find pleasure in music which tells me that I am right, that God is a monster or a creation of pedophiles; that hero-worship leads to fascism and love leads directly to room 101.

Anyway, expect some more pretentious prose at some point later today, I feel the need for a cup of tea and to expunge my hatred in the act of writing.

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