Write a bunch of pretentious shit usin’ big werds cuz it makes it sound like you can talk smart. That’s what I did before the first line of this offering. And then I read it and was embarrassed by the fact I'm not beyond occasionally writing like a douchebag. What the fuck was I thinking? Must have been pretty desperate to scribble something down. Oh well, the show must go on. Delete the garbage and forge on.
Ignorance is bliss, apparently, and genius is torture. What about the in-between? Being smart enough to recognize the idiocy of almost everyone that has ever been but not intelligent enough to figure out how to make it in a world designed for people that already have everything. And they don’t want to share. Be the mean kid in the playground, bash the greedy brats over the head and take what you want. Where to sign up for lessons that teach us how to do that? Live life long enough that bravery instills itself after the last straw has been loaded on. The classroom for this course is a disappointing life.
Blah, blah, blahing along, beating a horse killed ages ago by the first thinkers disappointed in the human condition. Is there anything new to say about the eternal shortcomings of people? Or how it is to live the lonely life of an outsider? Probably not. But what choice is there for someone like me? Bottle it up until I'm the next gun-toting, mind-experiment at a casino, a nightclub, or a school? Not an option. I've let people try and hypnotize me before, to absolutely no avail. I choose option B. Write down whatever unoriginal angst I can, hoping to be my own therapist because I don’t trust anyone else to offer such a service with any sort of honesty.
The only bullets fired into crowds by me are fatalistic verbs. Unleashing pent-up neurosis down the bore of my small-calibre brain. Spraying the minds of the great unwashed with bursts of misanthropy and megalomania. Literary explosions rocking centres of metropolitan ignorance across the globe. I am a terrorist stupour-villain, bent on unleashing a half-hearted campaign of prosaic warfare upon anyone willing to read my rage. Can you survive the blitzkrieg?
Withdraw toward false extroversion. Being alone with this demon in my head is far too frightening, I'd rather spend time with people that disgust me. At least they give me ammunition to use against them. No mercy for the foolish, I lay waste to legions of apathetic ghosts and pile the corpses high. Too high now, and all around I'm trapped inside a prison of my own design: the judgement against those that I see as unworthy.
Judge not, lest you tear everyone down to a level you see yourself at, and there's nobody left to look up to. Kill hope with narcissism and die alone.
It must be raining again. The grey day painting away anything positive to say. Use the excuse to let loose a stream of diseased consciousness when these words could have just as easily been the vehicle that took us to a happier place. The choice I made I won’t take back. The vehicle I chose here is of a destructive design. It carries nuclear neurological ordinance out of my brain and fires it off into spaces I'm unaware of. Everything is energy. Tomorrow is another day and I'll write a smile or two then.