anchor.diff:  
   We'll have a world war next. You can bet on it.
   
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   A while back I wrote a short review of Kurt Vonnegut's _Breakast of Champions_, in which I professed to be, as Vonnegut was, https://jarcane.github.io/2015/02/01/A-Man-Without-a-Country.html[a man without a country].
   
  
positive.code: My wife suggested that this was merely the depression talking. As Vonnegut might've said, my brain was producing bad chemicals again. 
  
  
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  The cat doesn't like me.
  
  
negative.code: 
  I surround myself with other people who themselves are screaming but, what can we do? We scream and wail but, we do nothing else. 
  
  We have become so callous as a species that we send machines to do our killing for us, rather than bother to make the effort ourselves, and then we automate the report of our automated atrocities in http://www.dronestre.am/[convenient Tweet-sized form.]
  
  Such perfect monsters we are!
  
  Half of us commit unspeakable atrocities, while the rest are satisfied, or at least mollified, with merely disapproving of them.
  
  But again, what can we do? Rise up in the streets? Take to arms and fill the streets with the blood and guts of the ruling class, and thus become just another generation of self-justified monsters?
  
  I should think not, though at times, I do hope nonetheless.
  
  