What is the Meaning of "Justice"?
Thinking About Helping Someone?

Read Bukowski

Maybe it's Seasonal Affective Disorder, but each winter I return to Charles Bukowski's work. Ham on Rye is considered his best, but it didn't do much for me. Women is much better, and while Love is a Dog From Hell is good, Factorum is my favorite.

He's a great writer for alcoholics. If you're a drinker, he's your guy. (I drink to get drink only a couple of times a year.) I enjoy his writing because he describes better than anyone the plight of the introverted misanthrope. Unlike Bukowski, I don't hate people. I get sick of them quite readily, though.

Why do people, every day, ask me how I'm doing? This makes no sense to me. You saw me yesterday. What do you suppose happened since? And if things were going well or terribly, why do you suppose I'd want to talk about to anyone - let alone you?

It's not a hate for people, but rather there is no need to connect. I don't need to tell people about my day, or share my feelings, hopes, and dreams. When someone asked me, "What are your goals?" I started laughing hysterically. 

It's not that people offend me. It's that I offend people. Tell someone that you don't care about their banal day, and see how they react. Tell someone that they are not special, and that their day is no different than the day of millions of others - and that their today is no different from their yesterday, or their tomorrow.

Tell people the truth, watch their reactions, and then accuse me misanthropism.

I empathize with Bukowski:

The further I am from the human race,the better I feel. Even though I write about the human race, the further away I am from them, the better I feel.

Two inches is great, two miles is great, two thousand miles is beautiful. As long as I'm able to eat. They feed me because I feed them. But I don't like to be near them. When somebody even brushes against me with an elbow, in a crowd I react.

I do not like the Human Race.

I don't like their heads, I don't like their faces. I don't like their feet.

I don't like conversations. I don't like their hairdo.

I don't like their automobiles. I don't like their Dogs. Or their Cats.

Or their Roses.