In the small wheelie chair of a poorly painted room, littered with old cereal bowls and discarded bank slips - each with its own array of colours ranging from burgundy to crimson coloured – sits an insecure, overweight man. He wears a grey hooded top which has seen finer days and one of three pairs of jeans, which he cherishes with such a severe intensity that he has to be cut out of them every three months, or so. He doesn’t smoke and hasn’t been drinking; however, his breath reeks of cheap orange juice and bitter mint toothpaste. For some reason he leans back and remembers a kiss from the summer where the cofounder was in such an unfit state that he can still taste the sweet taste of Malibu and vomit in his mouth. Anna Nalick blares out over the headphones of the laptop he is typing on. The writer cradles his head in his hands and emits a long sigh, swiftly fondling for a flask on his desk but finding none. Only a bottle of spray of hair gel falls into his grasp and, wondering what it tastes like, the author takes a swig. Never again.

The man is more of a boy, not more than eighteen years old. He is fat with rolls pouring out of every seam. The boy has short black hair but is scarred on his left side from when he was younger – an accident where he had run into his desk and his desk had won. There were two desks in the room; the first consisted of an old stereo (still CD, none of this MP3 shit), a laptop and about six tonnes of paper. The other had a TV, with no reception, sat on top of the left side. This has a classic games consol stationed below it as the author refuses to upgrade since “old is best.”

He shudders as he realised that someone, somewhere is doing something which makes him feel physically sick. With that he rushes to the toilet to relieve the tension which has built up inside.

Do I exaggerate? Unfortunately no I do not. The darkened room in which he sits has become the prison in which he has found himself bound. All he does is philosophise and feel hatred in his every sinew all day, everyday.

So the question is does cynicism destroy the soul or is hatred and art which should be worshipped like any other? The answer is one of those which is strictly personal to everyone so a deep indulge into it would be a pointless explanation. However, the key argument is that cynicism is something every person must indulge in every now and again. A rant is a rant and an argument is an argument – without cynicism vents the inner emotions of the human soul and allows it to relax, however morally incorrect it may be.

Cynicism - the art of hating something just because you don’t like it. Cynicism is something which has existed since the beginning of time and in the process of learning about life and learning about death there is a step in between – a step in which the opinionated decide that vanity publishing is the way to go, and in which a small collection take this chance as a way to have a nag at the rest of the world.

Surely this cannot be healthy for us as ethical human beings, well that is a point which is valid in its own right; however, it is more the prisons which bind us to ethical rule which are unethical. These cells bind us to the rules of man kind. Socialise and be liked, worship fashion and you’ll be loved.

Then there are the rest of the people, those who recognise that mankind is something which is the most corrupt element on Earth. There are the rest of the people who say ‘up you’ to the world.

According to several moral rules, ethical rules and religious rules this is something which can damn mankind to an eternity of hell. Of course, to the cynic the threat of a human telling you that hell awaits is hardly anything to be scared of, so all in all that doesn’t really matter. Let us be honest when we say that zealots scare us about as much as a small hamster on a treadmill.

Mind you, being fat, our cynic is scared of treadmills – so maybe that wasn’t the best analogy at the author’s disposal.

Cynicism helps develop the human psyche into a hard fortress of iron and steel, as apposed to the empty shell man kind is born with. The art of irrational hatred is one which should be considered prime importance in the grand scale of things as it is an art which is near impossible to keep up. Eventually cynicism turns paradoxal as human dictation becomes cynical about cynics. Then the least hatred filled person turns into someone who is bound to hate something. Cynicism dictates that.

So is it possible to avoid cynicism? The key answer is no. Cynics eat away at the normal people in society. They then, in turn, eat away at the cynics and decide that they dislike them. Is this cynicism about cynicism? If so then that leads to a vicious circle. The human soul finds it had to accept an infinite regression of causes, yet alone cynics. We spontaneously combust if this is dwelt on too much. Thus it is better to be a cynic, thinks our fat author, then to not be. SOS – Save our Soul. SOC – Save our Cynics.