We’re not really friends anymore.
And now I’m afraid, from now on, that’s all there’s left to do.
I never wanted it to happen like this.
But I guess I don’t know what else I expected.
A) Fuck irresponsible people.
B) Fuck irresponsible, immature people.
C) Fuck people who dig holes and expect others to dig them out.
D) Fuck people who dig holes and have to tell everyone around them that “it doesn’t bother me”–in a sad, pathetic effort to convince themselves that they’re okay with the hole they’ve put themselves in–but then go on hour-long rants about all the minutia that totally eats at them.
E) Fuck the people who aren’t honest with themselves.
F) Fuck people who have no self control.
G) Fuck people who rationalize their short-comings, justifying them, as if eliminating said shortcomings wouldn’t make them a better person. Self-acceptance is key, right?
H) Apparently, fuck self improvement.
I) Fuck people who see themselves as mothers of their friends.
J) Fuck people who think they give more than they take.
K) Fuck people who embrace their grandiose self-perception.
L) Fuck people who refuse to listen to your recommendation on how to avoid a problem, and create the exact problem you attempted to avoid.
M) Fuck people who get what they want all the time.
N) Fuck lack of justice.
O) Fuck quitters.
P) Fuck people who rationalize failure, rather than letting themselves be destroyed and rebuilt by it.
Q) Fuck people who buy pets and don’t care for them.
R) Fuck people who think they know the depth of a craft, just because they know what the craft is called.
T) Fuck people who run away from their problems.
U) Fuck people who exaggerate their success.
V) Fuck people who think they have it all figured out.
W) Fuck people who think they have it all figured out.
X) Fuck people who think they have it all figured out.
Y) Fuck people who can’t be told anything.
Z) Fuck people who only listen to their own advice. People who don’t understand that if you’ve seen further, it’s by standing on the shoulders of giants. People who study history but have no respect for it, or the experience of others on the basis that their age can be identified by the same numeric expression. People whose pride stands in the way of their own progress. People who don’t understand introversion vs extroversion. People who believe their subjective experience defines the global trend, and that their way is the right way. Fuck all that shit. Fuck it.
I’m glad we’re done here.
The letter S has been omitted for passive-aggressive reasons.
I don’t expect to retire this blog. But I also realize that despite my desire for it to become a place outside my venting, it will never be.
I will always write to escape my feelings. To externalize them and escape myself and self-destruction from “bottling emotion”. To compartmentalize my understanding of my frustrations through writing is how I deal.
But I can also measurably see that, through my lack of frequency in writing–the lack of hate, the deceleration of spirited tirades–I’ve become more stable. I’ve moreso approached a point where I’m able to internalize and extinguish irriation and anger and mood without having to publicly, passive-aggressively, display it for all to see-or-not-see-oh-what-if-they-do-fuckit-I-don’t-GIVE-A-FUCK-I’MSAYINGITFUCKITIDON’TCAREIFTHEYREADIT. I’ve grown up.
And I’m okay with that.
it spoke to me violently, and realized: just like years before.
the light bouncing and reversing from my ocular sensories and outward to give me clarity that, yes, this—she—was familiar; and transmuting between distinct and simultaneously identical matrices of beauty all carrying with them the same old, uniform, immediate, and primal understanding of familiarity; and the smile that…
complete, utter loss for words.
the sun loped away, and the cool amber sting’s acquaintanceship coerced itself into warm, insatiable thirst. at last, words were found. each perfect.
for a moment, the surge of life, and love of it, suffused itself into memory—so: this is what it was like. somehow I had forgotten, how could something so cripplingly beautiful be forgotten.
I can’t remember, but I’m certain that time would know.
finally: alone; the surge a mere memory; an echo in a chamber, the origin long forgotten.
complete, utter loss for words,