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Pat told me that 90% of serial killers read and loved J.D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye. Does this mean I shall be responsible for the mass slaughter of innocent civillians someday? Because I still quite enjoy reading that book.

There probably has to be some truth to the statistic, though. The first time I read it was during the peak of my high school angst, where Silverchair’s Freak was my anthem (Yeah, I’m a freak of nature/of nature/If only I could be as cool as you/Body and soul/I’m a freak) and when I made pathetic stabs at writing depressing poetry to express myself (ew ew ew). I remember feeling horribly crabby after finishing the book. To my fifteen-year old eyes, everyone was a phony and life was just one big joke. Anyway, I began the task of rereading Catcher in the Rye last night. This afternoon I felt the angst returning full force, after the security guard at school informed me and Pat that visitors are apparently not allowed to go to the caf or be anywhere else in el conyo Ateneo manicured lawn campus. Which is really funny because Ateneo’s so big on that “man for others” bullshit but maids, drivers, and bodyguards can’t even walk on campus or eat at the cafeteria. I suppose they don’t want the delicate conyo skins of the students to get contaminated by their masa cooties or something.

I spent quite a bit of time just sitting there and loathing everything and everyone. After awhile the spell passed and I realized that I’m much better off not giving a shit about hypocrites and people who piss me off in general. Come to think of it, if everyone were a little more indifferent, the world would be a better place. No one would care enough to hate all the stupid people. And because everyone would be too indifferent to notice the stupidity around them, that wouldn’t piss them off, and everyone can be a little bit happier. Every person will be able to live their lives in peace, just the way they want to, because no one would care enough to meddle in their affairs and life-changing decisions.

The lesson in indifference calmed me down, but it’s still something I have to master. No more Catcher in the Rye for me anymore, though. Reading it only makes me aware of a lot of things that piss me off about people, and being angry depletes my energy faster than two hours of packaging soap. So tonight, I shall be reading a collection of politically correct bedtime stories to lull me to sleep. No harm can come from there, except maybe for feminists, whom I’ve decided to call “gender Marxists” out of spite. But that is a rant for another day.

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