[ WP ] You are a `` normal '' person trying to fit in in a world where everyone is a psychopath .

I woke up to the sound of a blaring alarm, which I had set to ensure that I would not sleep too long, lest I be late for my daily institutional treatment. They like to keep all the adolescents in an institution, to stop them from feeling at an early age. Make sure they never learn to care about emotions. I stumble to the kitchen and try to make breakfast without using any ingredients that have hurt people. All the agriculture was long ago dominated by a chemical warfare company that makes deadly poisons; but I still like the ritual of trying to assemble a meal in which the majority of the foods were not farmed in a way that poisons everything and does n't use slaves. Getting harder and harder as time goes on. 
 Just about everyone is a slave. All the big sellers and makers that keep the world going rely on people not caring about their own happiness. The slaves do n't mind though, for the most part. Everyone does what they hate, but they get their daily allowed pleasure doses from the hand-held-thought-distraction-devices, so they do n't care. They all keep themselves occupied. 
 I'm dressed and ready to go. I have to wait and get picked up by the death-fume machine. Years ago someone invented a machine that burns ancient minerals to generate chaos by taking people place so fast and out of control that sometimes they die along the way, and so they do n't have to look at the world as they go through it. The institution likes to use these to heard us there and back. 
 Once I'm there I get to try to fit in safely among my peers until training starts. I learned years ago to just give up on getting them to have compassion. We are in a large brick walled room, hospital sterile, and everyone is sitting around tables. Each person likes knowing that others know how much hate they are filled with. They all chatter about how much pleasure they deserve, and how best they can manipulate others to get it. Training begins. 
 For the next seven hours, I go from small room to small room, where group of about 20 adolescents sit in rows of steel chairs, and silently listen to the various trainers. Today they tried to teach us about how to take books that people used to express feelings, and find ways of making us not care by treating the words like a mathematical exercise instead of feeling them. I actually like feeling the books sometimes though. They are from the age when people did n't have distractions. They also taught us about how to negotiate our slavery with toil-paper. It's special certificates that people circulate in the millions that keeps track of how much misery one has given one's self, so they can exchange the work for someone else being miserable. People try really hard to stay slaves, so they can keep getting more toil-paper and making others stay salves. 
 I mostly try to tune out the trainers, and they do n't seem to mind. I like to sit and keep my little feelings fed with morsels of lonely memories. It's a good use of my time. I just have to make sure I do n't let myself feel too much, or else it makes the trainers keep me in the institution longer in special rooms where the feelers have to sit in silence until they learn to not feel any more. If that does n't take your feelings away, they send you to secret building where people give you drugs that make your feelings go away. I try to tune out trainers as best as I can. 
 When I get home, I try to ignite feelings in other people my age. Some of them spend more time than most just staring at the distraction-devices, and some of them like to pair up and mash at each-other's genitals, so neither of them have to feel. I'm usually too tired from the training all day to really get my feelings going, especially on people who fear them at this point, but I try to do it as best as I can. 
 At the end of the day, I often try to calculate how many slaves died because of what I did. The number is usually in around the tens, when I really consider all the possible depths of the question. I do a lot of things that rely on the slaves killing themselves. I ca n't avoid those things any more. 
 At night, after trying not to spend too much time on the mind-distracters, I try to remember what it was like to be a child. I ca n't remember. All I feel is lonely. I wonder why I do n't leave all the slaves and go live in the woods. I guess having no company but slaves makes you a bit of a slave too.
