Wednesday, December 8, 2010

I’m sorry for the way that I am...

I’m sorry for the way that I am, but I guess just get hung up on stygian thoughts. Like, sometimes, I lose myself in images of bleeding wrists and purple lips. Yeah. That would be the life. So dead you didn’t have to worry about anything. If you can’t understand this, then you probably shouldn’t keep reading.
Anyway, I wish I could get into all the surfeit of consumerism and the materialistic securities of my lousy generation, but all that stuff just makes me sore, like something about me isn’t good enough to fit into their no good yuppie lifestyle and their goddamn yuppie clothes.
You know, my mother is always said, you can’t believe anyone, and that is sure as hell the truth. These sybarites walk by me on the streets in their meaningless new clothes that they’re crazy about and they look happy, but they aren’t. I mean, you can see it in the eyes, everybody is compensating for something.
Like Lucy, she is always ranting on about her quixotic dreams of getting her goddamn degree and being a secretary in some stuffy New York office building, but that is just to make up for the fact that she hates her boyfriend Jimmy. You know, people like that make me so sore. They stay in relationships just to get a fuck or two every week at the drive in, but that’s not even why they stay in their relationships- it’s because they are too goddamn scared that no one better will ever come along. That’s all that marriage really is. Settling for what you have because the next set of tits aren’t going to be as great as the one you own now, a way to eshew making yourself better. You can then focus on things to distract you from your worthlessness, like making lousy kids that are going to grow up and think you’re a hypocrite and a real trophy of an asshole. The constant battle to please is a hefty goddamned distraction. You could probably go years, or even lifetimes without even having to place one thought on your own self worthlessness. And then something happens, a heart attack, stroke, or even doing your own self in like a real champ and your life gets truncated off instantly, like a power outage. One stroke of lightning and you’re toast.
What really gets me about life is, the sycophant, you know, a real kiss ass, is going to get the stentorian place in the world, the people that will just roll over and take it from anyone. They are the ones that end up telling us what to do. Like they are the fucking boss. But, you’re not the boss of me. My mind can’t be governed by some tacit sense of mandatory conformity to make me goddamned happy and pleased with myself. Nobody is just happy being themselves. I guess that’s why women exist. There’s nothing like a plump rack to take your mind off of things.
I guess that really what life is about. Finding things to take your mind off of it, like quaffing down some stiff drinks and having a laugh with some of the guys. Yeah, that’s what happiness is.

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