Seasonal Misgivings

About thirteen hours ago the sun crossed the celestial equator or something, and humans around the world celebrated the event not by turning a page on their calendars but by changing the name of the season. I'm not sure if day and night being of equal length was noticed before the advent of timepieces or if this event was first noticed by charting the path of good ol' Sol, but it's now fall. And, as we know, in autumn, a young man's fancy turns to ... death?

Or, is it hatred? Maybe, more correctly, apathy.

I was recently told that I'm a misogynist, and I only wish it was that simple. To be rigorously forthright, I think I'm more an embittered misanthrope, although one more concerned about others than with myself. Mine is not an enviable attitude and, in many ways, is inexcusable, but it does have the distinct advantage of not being able to blame others for my failings. That's not much, I agree, but it keeps me from embarking on rampages and shaking my fists against the sky.

Instead, I alternate between wishing I could cry or throw up, as if that would somehow purge my being and system of all that's wrong.