The Art of Loathing.

“Something odd struck my mind as I applied my lip gloss the other day,” she confesses, “What if everything I believe is a lie? I encourage you to never go down a path that leads you to question your very existence. Unless, that is, you have an unquenchable need for self-loathing.”

“I find myself doing just that on a daily basis,” he replies with amusement.

“Question your existence?”

“Loath myself.”

She smirks at his candor, “Well then, it seems you’re ahead of me.”

“I’ve found it’s an important tool for the human race. Self-loathing, that is.”


“Imagine a world without it. I mean, the terror that would exist without it would be unthinkable. We’d all have the mind of a three-year-old, feeling justified in every action we made. Entitled to things for no reason at all.”

“Honey, I think that’s called being a millenial.”

“Do millennials not loath themselves? I swear I hear them talking about being depressed more than any other generation.”

“The difference between being depressed, and being unhappy is lost on them.”

They both pause in thought.

“Surely not all of them,” he breaks the silence. 

“There will always be outliers.”

“Thank God for the outliers.”

“Thank God for alcohol,” she raises her glass to his. 

“Thank God for alcohol,” he mimics.

They clink their glasses, and each take a long but delicate sip of a dry martini.


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