The bars that keep me caged are so loose I can tear them apart now if I wish.
I warned you.
I warned all of you.
I’m still behind them, but here’s a taste of things to come.
You there. Yes, you, you miserable, balding moron with a bad attitude and delusions of grandeur. Guess what? I can see your small, pathetic soul, as it writhes in the agony of a lifetime of inadequacy, and a desperate desire to prove that you have a right to exist in a world that doesn’t actually give a flying fuck about you. What twisted neurosis led you to believe that you were anything more than a loser that has failed at everything in life except failure itself? ‘Believe in yourself’ only applies if there is something there to believe in. The hoax your own mind played on you, the moment it led you to believe that you deserved air and were capable of achieving a nanosecond of true worth may have fooled you, but it has failed to convince anyone else.
It has failed to convince anyone else, because they are all too busy believing their own lies to bother with yours.
You there, you slack lipped bitch, full of fat and bluster. I’m here to tell you that wearing leggings and miniskirts, when your ass is the size of a small continent, should be made illegal on any planet in the known universe. You look revolting. You truly do. Your protestations that you ‘love your body’ are as full of pathetic shit as your overworked colon is. I see through the façade to the whimpering, spoiled child that decided that self-discipline applied to others, because it was more difficult than pushing fat encrusted donuts into the gaping shovel you call a mouth was. Self-esteem is not high on your list of priorities is it? But, guess what? It costs less than that over-processed, grease filled shite you stuff your walking carcass with. Oh, wait. It would require a brain cell to realise that, and the company responsible for making them was on strike when you came into this world with the belief that you had a right to take up more room than a mini-bus does. Loving yourself requires nourishment. ‘Saturated fat not included’.
You there, yes you, on your diet of amphetamines and Botox, covered in designer-label clothes made by the tiny fingers of children in sweatshops who don’t need chemicals to stay bone thin, because they starve on a daily basis, through no choice of their own.I see into your soul too. I don’t have to look far. It is thinner than tissue and screeches into a void that personality was meant to fill. I see your tears. I see your fears. I see your bloated ego, bolstered by nothing but the chemicals that exist where ‘mind’ was supposed to live. ‘Psychosis’ is not personality, it is pathology.
You there, you, jerking off to fantasies that will only ever remain within your ugly mind, because reality is harsh and your chances of acting them out are as non-existent as your importance is. Get a grip on something more worthwhile than the feckless flesh you call your genitalia and realise that your lack of success in life is in direct relation to the amount of effort you put into achieving your goals.
You there, yes you, praying for me now, to a ‘God’ of your creation. What arrogance led you to believe that a ‘Divine Being’ has any interest in your worthless existence? What deceptive mental neuron hoodwinked you into believing your useless thoughts deserved ‘air time’ on any Cosmic Channel?
You there, yes you, mouthing platitudes that you mistake for sympathy and concern? Time to wake up and realise that your only real concern is for yourself, and no one buys your line of bullshit; carefully crafted to resemble the shape of a decent human being. I see through your sugar-coated flesh to the hollow, desperate, selfish pretence you call your ‘kindness’. It is as non-existent as your ability to recognise the truth.
Who do you think I’m referring to in this blog? Hmm? Do you recognise yourself? Have I just described you? How could I know?
Get out of my fucking way. I’m just warming up!