Misanthropic

My happiest days are the days I have nothing to do. With

nothing to do I enjoy getting nothing done, my

one goal to get up in the morning, take nothing by the arm,

and sit in the house doing nothing. Midday, for

a break, I might think of going out with nothing, but a

better thought restrains me: I turn to my pillow

and, thinking only of nothing in particular, I

might doze and dream of nothing. Nothing really

pleases me more than nothing. It’s something like

being completely alone in the world with only myself

and nothing else to worry about, nothing at all. Under

other circumstances I might think I’m missing something, the

company of loved ones or friends. But if they grow hazy

or distant, it’s nothing. I’ll fly myself to the moon.