Tirade

I have to put the reins on. I just wrote and erased the most profanity laced poem I think I have ever written. It was all, “Go *uck yourself”, and rows and rows of the “F” word. I threw in the “C” word in there too. It was ridiculous. Not only was it ridiculous, but also embarrassing. What would my imaginary daughter say?

I think the sentiment was spot on though. I have a lot of things in my life to be angry about. Not that the things in my life are any more important than the things in yours, I’m just slightly more upset about them. Since I pretend to be an artistic guy I have to express it the best way I know how. And this morning apparently it was with a soulless, profanity wrought, full page poem about telling everyone to Go *uck Themselves.

Which you should do.

I digress however. It burns me when I see douche bags so self obsessed they have to wear tee-shirts that actually say “Obsessed”,  walking downtown with a beautiful woman on their arm. (Or rather following closely at his heels because he’s too good to actually walk with her). It makes me wonder why I’m single. Probably because I’m telling everyone to Go *uck themselves.

But it doesn’t make any sense. I’m so kind. I’m so interested. I’m so willing to stretch out from my life and share things. Yet, I’m rebuffed at every turn. Shot down and strangled before anything gets started. It’s likely my own fault for being a drunken idiot most of my waking hours. Would you date me? I mean if you were a petite, blue eyed, blonde girl with lots of money? I mean, c’mon, you’d get with this right? (Okay, money isn’t important).

I’m kidding of course; I’m not that crass. Although clearly there’s a part of me (as far as self examination goes) that knows there’s truth in humor. A painful, painful truth that makes us all cringe with laughter after a few seconds. It’s like seeing a clown get hit by a car. I mean it’s tragic and you hope that guy’s okay, but you laughed when that car smashed into his stupid clown shoes.

My life is not a tragedy. I can think of so many worse things going on in the lives of people close to me. My problems don’t (overall) amount to a hill of beans. It’s selfish of me to complain about it all. Perhaps I should go and *uck myself.  However I have opened myself up to pity. Why is pity so bad? I’ll take pity from now on as legal tender if it’ll get me the romantic satisfaction I need like so much crack.  

Don’t come to me though and try to give me advice. I’ve heard it all before. I freaking hate life advice. Your experiences make you who you are; they won’t make me who I am. My poor imaginary daughter must be so embarrassed right now.