Apparently, my friends think I’m a miserable bastard. In a good way, presumably, because these people are my friends. But I remain confused by this. I’ve been confused by it for years, although it’s been some time since I was accused of it. Perhaps people have just given up telling me I’m a miserable bastard. I doesn’t really bother me, although it used to. I just find it amusing that one group of people can ask me if I ever stop smiling (not often, apparently), while another can accuse me of a miserable bastard.

Because, y’know, I think I’m generally quite cheerful. I laugh at the world. It’s a ridiculous and lunatic place, and I love it as much as I hate it.

Like I say, I’m just amused that people think me a miserable bastard. Unpleasant and cynical, I could buy. Slightly neurotic lately, true. But miserable always leaves me faintly confused.

I swear, I will never understand you humans.

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