If I were to begin this piece by stating I’m fully self-aware that I’m probably going to Hell the moment I kick the bucket, it wouldn’t come as a surprise to all that know me, as well as those who’ve been reading this blog. Fuck. Probably, maybe, definitely a first-class ticket, because my inner daemons can’t wait to spread me across an ash-grey desk and fuck me raw until my sweet ass leaks for forgiveness. I’m not religious but fuck, there’s a good chance I’d receive an award for pursuing a life full of wickedness and selfish behaviour. Sitting left to the big man himself, eternally loathing masked in pride. But hey, at least I’d get 74 virgins. Oh, shit, wrong religion.
But, that’s not good enough. Nothing surprising here. So here’s the problem: I’m not keen on opinions which clash with my own, when it comes to the topic of my behaviour and my decisions. It’s not the opinions themselves which bother me. Fuck, people can say whatever it is they please. My scale of not giving a fuck is about as loose as a queen hooker’s vagina after 22 years of untamed experience, lacking the basic understandings of a heavy flow tampon. I’m not feeling a fucking thing. Get it? Fucking – feeling a fucking thing? Don’t worry about it. It’s the quantity of opinions, mind you, and it’s always from those who feel the need to be heard. Who gasp for attention. The need, the obsession to fix things. Like, please, suck the tip of my penis and fuck off. I’ll dry myself up, you’re not welcome here.
I’m pretty sure, almost certain in fact, that there’s a link between those who live small and shallow lives, and the incestous need to monitor how others are living their lives. Narrating their own life’s purpose through self-denial and Alice’s fucking looking glass. You say you’re going to choke a woman through an indirect FaceBook post and people lose their fucking minds. I’m a bad person, I’m aware of this. There’s no need to remind me as though it were something I should be ashamed of. It makes me happy. Screenshot a conversation then pass it along to your so-called friends, and judgements about your intentions with the opposing sex are seen in bad taste. I’m willing to bet she taste pretty fucking good, but that’s looked down upon also.
I should note that at the time of writing I’ve spent the past two days indoors without a change of clothes, time well spent manipulating the mind of a female through the use of a smartphone. Hence, the table reserved in Hell. I’ll be at the bar – Pre drinks to get things going. Fuck. We’re all villains, some of us are just honest and self-aware of our crimes. But who’s to say what is and what isn’t a crime if you’re having fun? If I make my intentions clear to someone – that someone being an owner of a vagina, and that someone through all faults of their own chose to see things in an alternative way thanks to self-induced emotions and illusions, is it really my fault if they’re met with disappointment because I chose not to fill in the gaps, allowing them to run rampant with expectations?
At no point whatsoever did I present the possibility of feelings. Despite my own wickedness which in itself has been purposed for self-gain and preservation, I was generous in stating my only objectives reside within her meat flaps. Who told the poor woman to catch feelings? It’s at this point in the story that an Estrogen Mafia would arrive on the scene, armed with pitchforks and day-old tampons. Forming an alliance with the millennial feminists, bra-less lesbians take to the 280 word character count with crucial disregard for grammar – severely lacking in vocabulary as they rage and bleed. Shoot me now. My dick is on auto-pilot.
Fuck. They’ve labelled me an emotional terrorist. By “they” I mean friends and acquaintances. Fuck. I’ll figure it out. I’m a pro at cutting ties. She’s got nicknames and future plans for an “us” that will never come to pass. I’m fucking doomed. Fuck.
Original Copyright © 2017 by KalifornicationX.