Misanthropy.

Julie sits outside of the large Humanities building, on a wooden bench underneath one of the less occupied tree covered areas. From where she is sitting, she can see a number of students lounging around as well as hurrying past.

College students... what interesting and disgusting creatures, she muses as she pretends to be texting on her iPhone - an activity that she finds herself doing to look occupied, partly out of an unremitting need to fidget, and partly out of the need to ward off strangers.

Every morning when Julie initially wakes she feels caught between the desire to love the world and to hate it. Usually, about an hour into the day later, she finds a happy balance nestled among a daily schedule, cup of coffee, and texts from her friends.

Naturally, sitting there and noticing an equal amount of negatives as positives concerning her peers makes her feel like a bit of a misanthrope. Hate the world. Hatehatehatehate. Initial guilt about negative similarities quickly dissipates and the elitist attitude sinks in.

Then why, why dear god, does Julie want to "help" people? If she detests the general public at all, why want to work with them? Why with children of all populations?

The only answer I can think of is this: a healthy dose of misanthropy inevitably drives those with a good-natured, caring disposition to want to do something to improve or mend broken humanity.

Why children? Well, because...because every time Julie meets an adult with "issues", every reason for the way they are is a downward of trajectory stemming from their past. Get 'em young! - they say and all that.

Julie is no fool. She knows she cannot help nor improve humanity significantly. To her, though, if she can really, truly help but one or a few vulnerable beings it makes it all worth it.

It is bizarre how this desire to help is a viable partner to the tendency to dislike.

That's all, folks.