When the ritualistic waking-up-to-a-new-dinosaur-every-morning therapy fails to give you your daily dose of escapism, you realise the extent to which life hates you.
I don't like the way the world functions. I don't like humanity's staggering stupidity. I don't like my breakfast cereal and that I am addicted to caffeiene. I don't quite like the nascent tummy that I so fashionably sport. I don't like it that people actually listen to radio city on the way to work. I don't like the traffic policeman in trinity circle that wears the dirty soiled cap. I don't like to look down and see my brown belt with a mended loop in a slightly different colour. I don't like my carpet stained with tea. I don't like the sagging breast of the motorcyclist that I often see at various traffic signals. I don't like people who tuck their t-shirts under their trousers, especially if the t-shirt is red in colour. I hate my hairy balls when the hair gets plastered to the balls after a shower. And the list goes on.
Dinosaurs have given me my daily dose of escapism from all the things that I hate, except my hairy balls. It is my own world where I can imagine feathered tyrannosaurs ambling after bulky iguanodons that are striped for camouflage, velociraptors pack-hunting and for an hour the world is to my liking.
When the ritualistic waking-up-to-a-new-dinosaur-every-morning therapy fails to give you your daily dose of escapism, you realise the extent to which life hates you.
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