Byron you miserable sod. As if sardonic banter and a copy of the god delusion are gonna save you from the razor at your wrist? Joyless atheism and cod scientific assertions of human purposelessness may score you points with pissed hipsters, but you’re hardly a bucket of sunshine mate. What if you’ve picked the wrong team? Harem pants look really comfy, actually. What if your precious cynicism’s just a prophylactic to true contentment? If everything’s so arbitrary, what’s with all the fear? Shape up son. Time’s an executioner. You better live, before you die.