Talk Me Down from This Ledge, Please

How I got up here, I really don't know--
I hate heights; belvederes and escarpments unnerve me.
Maybe I sleepwalk? That would explain it.
One morning, I crawled out of bed and discovered
The people I care for had fled before daybreak,
Leaving behind a welter of grublings,
Larvae preprogrammed with inbred agendas.
Unfit for human companionship,
They exhibit the traits of the dipterous clan:
They're joyless and querulous, quarrelsome, cold,
Fretful, frightening, and farcically dull.
I've tried to befriend some, but it's clear, I disgust them;
See how they wriggle and veer to avoid me,
For I'm the pariah they can't bother knowing.
Would they tilt up their slug-maws and mumble, "Don't jump"?
Unlikely. Each slug-breath is time-stamped and hoarded--
Not one's to be wasted on piss-for-brains poets!
So now, on this precipice, the subject of swan dives
Consumes me: I calculate arcs and project
The maximum impact on maggots and mealworms;
Apart from those crushed by my shot-tower fall,
Will anyone notice? Nope. "Scenes" don't concern them;
They'll quiver a moment, then wamble away.