By Tom Flynn

The truth is I’m a bad person. 

Nah, I’m actually a good person. No honestly, I’m really lovely. I’m empathetic to the point of self sabotage. If I like you, you can have the shirt off my back if i happen to have one. 
And despite all my grumbles and my spindly misanthropic veneer, I honestly believe there’s much more in men to admire than despise. If I speak to you at all, chances are I think you’re a good skin. 
The strange thing is how I present that fondness. 
How fond I am of you is directly proportionate to the amount verbal abuse I fling at you. The more I like you, the more horrible I am. I’m very very fond of Antonio for example, he’s one of the loveliest men I’ve ever met, and yesterday I went on an extended fifteen minute  manic rant  pertaining his romantic misadventures and incomparable italianess.   
It’s something I’ve always done, and I don’t know if it’s an Irish thing, or just a thing I have. I’ve become very conscious of it lately. You see I’m very attached to everyone on the course, and I’ve been doing it all the time, but I’ve started to wonder how it makes people feel. I’m used to people who’re used to it. They know the jabs are affectionate. But in school I catch stick pouring out of my mouth, and I wonder why I said it. How did that make the other person feel? Do they realise I’m expressing affection, or do they think I’m an uncouth Mongrel? 
It’s a strange little defence mechanism to have, to push at the people closest to you, but if it fits quite well with the strange duplicity inherent in the Irish condition. 
So if I’m ever seem to be a cunt, I’m sorry, I’m probably quite like you. Now if I’m just perfectly pleasant, then you should be worried. 

The copy scores 75.6 in the Flesch Reading Ease test