I hate weakness because I hate pity; I hate strength because I never have enough; I hate popups that ask you to sign up without moisturizing sweet talk or foreplay; and I hate x-ray procedures where they put a bib on your balls and expect you to “just relax.”
If I lose a testicle, doc, I’ll be waiting for you outside with a big knife!
I hate cross contaminating depression; I hate the linear regularity of meaningless routine; I hate traffic jams, rubberneckers, and slow-ass drivers who insist on driving on the left-goddamn-lanes.
May they all get bone cancer!
I hate baristas who automatically assume I need syrup in my coffee when the default should always be black; I hate the Kaiser Permanente bitch who comes on the radio, deluding perishing old people by telling them to “thrive;” I hate fundamentalists, fatalists, feminists, atheists and any other -ists that have sacred words and ideas that cannot be questoned, scrutinized, mocked, joked about or attacked; but most of all I hate people
write like this
because they think it’s
poetry, where in
fact it’s just a
pile of pretentious
Go suck on a fat baby’s balls, you bastard!
I hate people who suffer from themselves because they keep trying to be someone else; I hate people who are ashamed of their madness and choose to live the rest of their lives gritting their teeth; and I hate people who would rather burnout in the dark—alone and unnoticed—instead of burning down, flying into the sun where everyone can see.
“I’ve never been certain whether the moral of the Icarus story should only be, as is generally accepted, ‘don’t fly too high,’ or whether it might also be thought of as: ‘forget the wax and feathers and do a better job on the wings.'” —Stanley Kubrick
I hate the anger and envy in my heart for desiring peace because of fear, and humility because of doubt; I hate trading the act of bravery for hollow sympathy because I know that resistance is what distinguishes a warrior from a slave; and I hate that I have to fail again and again because I’m too dumb to learn from a single, time-consuming, life-robbing mistake.
Get your act together, son!
I hate that I love standing on a peak while looking at the cathedral of rocks and the chandelier of stars; I hate that I love witnessing the prism splits of sunrise through the smokey quartz of skyscrapers cloaked in smog; and I hate that I love staring at the sunset’s hemisphere of red and experience that gushy feeling of being cute and fluffy and vulnerable inside.
Why the shitting death do I feel like a Care Bear?
I hate myself for knowing that flaws are not something to be accepted, but rather something to be surpassed; I hate myself for craving the thrill of blood and beauty—colored by iron and passion—because I am helpless against it’s narcotizing effects; and finally, I hate myself for loving the hustle so much because I know that if I don’t love it so fiercely, then I probably don’t love it at all.
Either nut up or shut up!
Till the next rant!