Do you know what really depresses me? Not just that *you*, ensconced
in a lifetime of comfortand privilege you've done nothing to earn, are
incessantly complaining of suffering and misery and boredom and
dubious oppressions.
It is that i find you--worse than unchanged, regressed!--so dull,
inert and feeble-minded. Turning a blind eye to the horror of your
mistakes and a gimlet eye to the minor ones of those around you.
You've talked a good game about your strength and independence; I
had hoped for better. Your circumscribed life is only "busy"
because you occupy yourself with a wastrel's garbage.
All I can see in your every word and deed is the selfishness of
your mind, the soap-opera crudities of your desire and the paralysis
of your ambition.
I could easily come up with a probable explanation for your pitiful
self-hatred. I don't even want to think about it, however, as it
reveals you to be even less self-aware than I feared.
