Hating on the Un-Real, Safe “You”

Not once did I deign to like you,

And yet here you are, always here, always around the corner;

Grinning like an idiot and giggling away like a maniac.

Let me be clear- your laughter is the soundtrack to my misery.

If I didn’t believe in morality, I’d have you exiled- from Life.

And I’d give very specific instructions to the executioner, to look into your eyes, and make it especially painful.

Its messed up, I know. I barely even know you,

Come to think of it, you barely even know you.

But it’s that very lack of knowledge that is making my life, living hell.

Why would you think it’s ok to go about life, in perfect oblivion?

Never having thought about your choices or beliefs?

Never considering for a moment, to itch a philosophical inkling,

To ask what you believe in or, why.

Its fuckin unbelievable that you never seem to have used your brain for anything other than your 9-5 job.

And perhaps your job is as fascinating as you say it is, but I simply don’t understand;

How that could still be a valid excuse, for never having considered why, you do the things you do!

For God’s sakes man, you’ve got a brain! Whatever happened, to good old fashioned thinking?

How long are you going to live your life, letting your family tell you what to do?

What’s going to happen when they move on? When you have kids? When you want to talk to an intelligent human being?

Is this an island life thing? To never consider life to be anything more than, the beach and school and work?

If anything, shouldn’t the sheer breathtaking nature of nature, prompt you to ask more questions?

I pity the skull that has had to take the trouble, to protect an instrument so rarely used, for anything beautifully worthwhile.

I pity it so much, I want to put it out of it’s misery. From an existence where, not one thought is given, to one brain cell, that does so much to keep that empty brain sane!!

It’s got its work cut out, for sure- that poor cell.

What kind of a poor excuse for a zombie, rents it’s brain out to the highest paying advertisers and, slings along empty Whatsapp images to every fuckin person on your friend list?

Who are you? What sort of anomaly brought about your dreadful existence? Why do you have to do this to others?

Just call yourself uninteresting and hang up. At least then I’d have an excuse to say no.

Because the apparent lack of creativity or thought processes, is not considered a valid reason to say no, by polite society.

Because of course, you had to be nice.

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“Why would you say no to him, he’s a nice guy”, they’ll say.

That goddam personality trait, that makes me want to rip my hair out.

It’s a non-trait, dammit- A blank substitute for the lack of anything else, that would at least make you descriptive in some other way, than just being “nice”.

Why do people willingly call themselves something so boringly non-descirpt?

Something that screams, “look away, there’s nothing worth noting here…

Nothing here worth considering for your possible future children’s, genetic makeup at all”.

What good is nice without spunk? Or thought? Or originality? Or humor? Or beauty? Or passion?

What good is nice to me? What the fuck am I supposed to do with it? Boil it in a pot with potatoes and feed it to our progeny, that will inevitably ask me why my decision-making skills had to frtiz, on the day I picked you as a prospective candidate for marriage?

What the hell am I supposed to tell them, then? That everyone said, you were fuckin nice?

Even a 5-year-old knows that’s the only way to describe someone, you don’t want to call boring.

To hell with nice.

I want everything else, but that. I want loving and intelligent, blushingly handsome and passionate, rough around the edges and funny, compassionate and tattooed, creative and convicted,

I want hell spawn raising, parent & society frown earning, honest to goodness, bad mouthed, good hearted, trying-to-do-his-best, willing to fight and live, hunks of the real, authentic you.

What I absolutely don’t want, is nice.

So please leave, before I down this bottle, show you my tattoo and, start on my philosophy & thinking spiel I’ve reserved for 12th grade Sunday school students, who think they’ve figured out God, in the frickin 8 conscious years of their lives- all just so you’re very-nice-guy-self can have a reason to oh-so-politely bow yourself, the hell out of my life. Thank you for trying, don’t come again.

Although, with my luck, I’m going to end up marrying someone exactly like you. FML.

2/6/18

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