When everything fails, I complain. It is a gourmet schadenfraude pie: aromatic and soul-curing. I have grown addicted to it, and sometimes I find it more delightful than usual. Quite often the contrary. I am addicted to the damn pie and I don’t seem to stop my growing voracity anytime soon. Although the disease of soul-scorching rhetorical retrospection diabetic seems to be growing inside me at an alarming rate, the whimpering and grumbling simply doesn’t seem to stop. Why? Well, just like any obnoxiously normal person, it gives me a sense of nirvana, and I transcend into the visceral realms of security by shifting the blame on others. And like the thousand times before, I start to beat my killer chest with my fist in a King-kong-ish fashion, proudly proclaiming “It’s not my fault”.

 Strangely, the aftermath is incredibly dull and I admit that I vomit. I have done it so many times that I have actually become an ementophobe. I even feel quite stupid for doing so. In the end it all ends the same and I am left under those dark clouds of remorse with shrapnel of disgust in my head, and a brutally wounded hope. After a while the rabid self-realization steps in and the necessity to pull back the strings together directs me to start from the scratch or even move on with it. Life without complains and disgust, a life of solace. Is it remotely possible?

  Just like the nature’s fundamental laws of causality, the linear and discrete hope should exist in my opinion. After all anything broken could be fixed, anything imagined could be created. Supposedly it only requires an act of diligent perseverance and grit. But even for me, when I think in a global scale, the ramifications don’t make sense. Who gives a toss on the selfish individualism? What about the Butterfly Effect and the non-linearity of life? Ah, I can’t really think about it. I’d rather bicker and complain. It's much easier. Nasty, very nasty, horrible eh! Ugh!!!!! (I puke) ………….