Misophonic Soup
The older I get, the more of a misophonic misanthrope I’m becoming. I’ve always struggled with the noise of other people. The sound of gum being chewed. The clearing of another’s throat. The labored effort of a partner’s snoring. Once I’m locked in, I’m completely insufferable. I cannot unfocus my ire upon anything or anyone else. What it would be to live in a world where you could just give someone both barrels over the smallest auditory infraction. Not me of course. I’d be immune from criticism. I am God and beyond reproach in such a universe. The worst are those indiscrimiately sat near you in restaurants who cannot help themselves but talk endless shit about nothing. All night. I’m reminded of John Cusack’s character in High Fidelity when he finally realizes, years too late, what’s really going on with his ex-girlfriend.
”And then it dawned on me. Charlie’s awful. She doesn’t listen to anyone. She says terrible, stupid things and apparently has no sense of humor at all, and talks shit. All. Night. Long. Maybe she’s been like this all along. How did I manage to edit all this out? How had I made this girl the answer to all the world’s problems?”
I dream of telling these people exactly what to do with their views on the world, but I never do. Too spineless. Too fearful. Too frightened of consequence. So I just sit in my misanthropic bubble and stew in the juices of resentment. Eaten up by the internal, infernal boiling of a misophonic soup.
