by GR3G0R
Let's get straight to the point - I hate you all.
You read that right. There wasn't a spelling mistake. I'm not drunk, and you aren't imagining things. And, yes, I mean all of you. Even you in the back, leaning against the wall with your hands in your pockets acting like you don't care. I'm sure you're telling yourself that I must mean everyone else. That I don't even know you, so there's no way that I could hate you. Well, I'm sorry to break it to you, but it's simple. I do.
Now that we've gotten that out of the way, let me explain a little.
Just like almost everyone who's walked the hallowed halls of our beloved school system, I bobbed and weaved my way through the scalpel-like precision of daily insults and a student body whose every word and action was a Chuck Norris roundhouse to the cracks in my self-esteem. Those places broke and grew stronger after they did, so I'm actually a little glad for it. I didn't get it as bad as some others, and ultimately all those years of enduring lunches spent in a stairwell reading instead of the cafeteria along with recess periods sitting on the swings while everyone else played soccer or basketball ended up making me the asshole that you all know and love. And I'm sure that none of you would want to change that.
I bring this up for one simple reason. Through all that teasing and derision, I got the impression that everyone - and I do mean everyone - was better than me. I figured if every stumble I made in the hallway and question I asked in class was so obviously a manifestation of my short-comings, then all of you must be out there effortlessly handling life and doing all the cool shit that I could only imagine.
So now, even though I know better, I just can't shake it. Somewhere in my head, just beyond where I can see you, you're all out there knowing way cooler stuff than I know, wearing better clothes, having smarter conversations, and even fucking prettier women. That idea stuck and grew under my skin like a slow-moving fungus.
And, all in all, this wouldn't be so much of an issue if it were actually fucking true.
See, I keep getting smacked in the face with the facts. You’re not going to the cool parties and turning down the best drugs. You aren’t talking philosophy and literary theory with that really cute looking guy who comes into the bar just to see how damaged you are at the end of a shift. Hell, there isn’t even a single one of you sneaking backstage with the local groupies to give or get a blowjob while leaning back against the business end of a puke-filled urinal.
So where are those people? Did I just imagine them? Are they my Easter Bunny? My LA Clippers Championship trophy? My Cask of Amontillado?
Short answer…yes. You’ve infused me with this idea that I’m not living up to some absurd standard that you had little-to-nothing to do with. Yes, the worst part is that you didn’t actually create that standard, you just implied it like a fictional character does with the portions that the author doesn't actually write. No reason to write the part of Gatsby’s life where he’s hungover from drinking himself to sleep while everyone else parties in his massive house. No need to tell us that Holden Caulfield grows up to resign himself to a wife that’s barely hot and doesn’t like it from behind. We get what we get and the rest is put together from those small pieces.
So, once more for the cheap seats: I hate you all. Not because you're living gloriously exciting lives, but because you're not. All this time, I thought you were doing all the cool shit while, really, you were just living your lives in a very normal, boring way. The way I've been doing. The way everyone does it.
And now, now that I'm finished with using you all as a measure for all the things I'm not, I plan to finally do all the things I imagined you doing as soon as you left my presence. Well, some of them anyway. And I think you should too.
I say get out there and fart in front of the cute girl down the hall. Put on your best frock and fall down in a bar packed-full of popped collars. Puke on your way to the bathroom instead of making it inside. Hell, stir your beer with your dong if it makes you feel good (as long as it’s your beer, not mine). They'd all make a far better story than doing as little as you can in order to ensure that tomorrow is as much like today as possible.
Besides, don't you think you owe it to me after all these years I thought that's what you were doing anyway?
