How Often Do You Hate Yourself?

I do a lot of shit that embarrasses me after the fact. I deliberately mis-manage social interactions, so people are more inclined to avoid me. I play the “weirdo” in my workplace, so people will never even think of asking me for a lift home. I beat off to friends and relatives, most of which I don’t even find attractive.

I just do it for the fuckery of it.


I enjoy the shame of being disreputable. I need to have a sense of self-hatred. It puts today and the next day into a digestible, comprehensive nugget, which if I didn’t have at hand to swallow, I’d probably put a bullet in my head or drive full-speed into a concrete plinth.


In a world where everything from politics to religion to social justice is a walking fucking joke, self-abasement is now pretty much the last standing fiber of my being. I care about nothing but burning as much hydro-carbon energy as I can before I clock out. My dream is to brutally club the last of a living species to death and eat its meat raw in front of a Youtube live audience. Gloaming in the comments. Relishing in the digital outrage.
Watching tearfully as the bombs of finality eventually drop.