“No truth can cure the sorrow we feel from losing a loved one. No truth, no sincerity, no strength, no kindness can cure that sorrow. All we can do is see it through to the end and learn something from it, but what we learn will be no help in facing the next sorrow that comes to us without warning.” ― Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood
Douchebags are people, like you and me. But they're of a special kind annoyance and it's worse when they're made of faceless institutions so that you're left with impersonal desk minders to throw your complaints at.
The cold and rainy season is a contemplative time. The chill transports me to places, real or abstract that I have long forgotten or carelessly swept away and classified as mental rubble. Such a great time for erratic writing, don't you think?