bitterness

I am home with my pile of readings. I have closed the sliding door, turned off the lights, so the small words on the page are lit by the afternoon sun beamed through the yellow window.

I hate people:
She doesn't respect me and I have given up trying to blame myself for the way things have soured. There will never be room for two-way compromise. I will live with this and systematically break her down for the rest of the year if I have to survive in this household.
He is so fucking two-dimensional it makes me physically nauseous. I thought he could have been something more but everything he says and does is so predictable, even his secrets. He reads like a book. I pity him.

What a great consolation that people are merely arbitrary conceptions of the mind like any other forms, as I would quote Kerouac at this point in time.