We descended.

After descending I had an email which reminded me that I’ve been consistently annoyed by someone at work. He annoys everyone, it’s not just because I’m a misanthrope, so I used him as inspiration to write a paragraph of my book. One of my POV characters is an asshole and I love him because he’s just going to grow in cuntishness throughout:

There’s a ruddy-cheeked man who sits opposite me at work. His body, which seeps around his tortured chair, is the consistency of cold custard. Looking at him is like observing a mound of slimey, chewed up gum thumbed into the vague shape of a person by a toddler with special needs. A toddler who has shown no exceptional ability in the arts despite being intellectually challenged, the way some of the autistic ones do. A toddler who is also blind, with no concept of what a human being looks like. A blind toddler with special needs and no exceptional artistic talent who has been given a potato to feel with his sticky fingers and cruelly told that the potato is the shape of a person and then given a pile of old gum to recreate what he has felt. That toddler’s God-awful gum sculpture would look exactly like the man who sits opposite me at work. And thinking all these things makes me feel tremendous guilt. Because the man is very nice. I hate him, he tells me about his live-in grandmother in excruciating detail when he catches me in the kitchen even though I waited until I saw him leave to go and make a coffee, but he is very nice. I send text messages to other co-workers complaining about the angle at which he holds his swollen head whilst he types. I would send these cruel gripes via email but I’m worried he can read them because he is the sort of grotesque blob who has so few social plans that he has probably learned a lot about programming, or at the very least knows his way around the office intranet better than I do. And yet I am the one thinking about him at midnight.