Runts

We’re the weak kind – neurotic, depressive, left handed, probably mutated. In any other time, we would never have survived birth.

 

If we were anywhere but in academia, we’d be dead – we’d have killed ourselves. Academia let us survive.

We’ve been raised by the uni. We’re runts of the uni. Of the uni litter.

We should never have survived. Never should have come of age. We should have been snuffed out, much earlier. Never should have been encouraged. Never brought on.

What was it – diversity quotas? Stupidity quotas? Unbalanced people quotas?

 

We’ve grown through the poison. Grown from the poison – out of it. We’re blooming from the poison. We’re poison’s bloom. We’re nothing but poison.

 

We’re runts of the litter. Malformed. Kinda short. With asymmetrical faces – that says a lot. Not, like, radiating life. Not happy. Disgruntled, in some fundamental way. We have bad attitudes. We’re full of needs. Fuck ups, in short.

 

Can you be philosophers, when you’re fucked up?

You can develop a fucked up philosophy. A philosophy of fuck-ups.

So that other fuck-ups can read it?

Maybe.

 

We’re bad-willed. And bad-souled. And fucked up. Someone should put us out of our misery.

Someone should.

 

We're paranoid. Inclined to conspiracy theories.