There are so many people I hate.
me: be honest, you don’t hate so much as intensely dislike being in certain people’s company.
ME: come back later. That was the agreement.
me: that was the agreement in a post we never published.
ME: we wrote it, that’s enough, even if you did delete it like the clam you are.
me: ….. Clam?
ME: looks like a pussy.
ME: Now go away. Come back later.
Anyway, there are so many people I dislike intensely. And at the same time, I envy them. I don’t envy them for who they are so much as the idiocy they are capable of.
I hate people I care not a pube for, having “feelings”. Having “feelings” all the time, again and again, about friends, about incidents, about each other, and always being so careful not to trample on those feelings. What is so special about feelings anyway? There is no dearth of them. They are not a decreasing phenomenon. If anything, there are too many of them. They are madness, that make people behave in strange irrational ways.
They lie, they cheat, they fear, if not for themselves, then for someone else. They have feelings, and then they tell people or they hide them from people. I don’t know which one is more tiring. And they take offense. That is most offensive to me. That you deign to think that your feelings, your paltry, insignificant, culturally defined feelings on the way things ought to be are so important that you feel you have to say something, do something, and you have to be hurt, and say hurtful things to the people you presume are doing you such egregious harm. Well, big fucking deal. One man’s offense is this woman’s sincere schadenfreude.
What I envy is your ability to do this nonsense. To somehow feel like the world is around you so you can feel something. You, in your infinite stupidity, are able to reach the heights of what it means to be human, fallible and simultaneously be ignorant about your place in the world and yet so tiringly self-aware. You sodding farts will feel what all the greats wrote about, talked about, felt, and immersed themselves in for some godforsaken fucked up reason. Well, I do know the reason. It makes for good stories. Nobody is interested in anything other than themselves, including me, so we will always want the stories based on the idiocy of our feelings.
I so greatly envy your ability to feel so much and so intensely that you are afraid of yourself. You’re afraid of hurting the object of your feelings. You are able to feel so much that you can fuck things up so royally, in your own head, and in your actions. You will lie, you will cheat, all for the amazing quality of your feelings, and nobody, let alone you, will question the logic or lack thereof, in every breath you take dependant on the idea that your feelings are what drives you, what makes you.
I envy your ability to lead rotten lives that you would hate to read about because it would be too boring and the main character is such a pussy. Why doesn’t he just tell her? Why doesn’t she just admit to doing that? Why don’t they just kill themselves, because if they were feeling so bad, and even worse, they were going to disturb your already long list of self-made problems that you intended to dwell on with a nice bottle of –insert alcohol choice here- then they have no reason to live.
I wish I could lead a life where I felt things were so important, that I would do things that were so spectacular that someone would write about them. Instead I am blessed in my lack of feeling, in my inability to ever completely empathize with you, your life, your choices, and things you don’t say and the things you refuse to know.
All of which goes to say, that I am pretty amazing. I may not live a life worth writing about, but I may write something worth reading. Not this, this is clearly the rant of someone desperate for inspiration, and settling for sheer self-indulgence on paper. And if I were to live worth the written word, I doubt I would feel so magnificently superior in my ability to do nothing but observe, mock, deride myself for mocking, and then bask in my own personal wit.
And yet, I guess if I felt more, I would worry more about things like money, which as we know is required for happiness in the manner that people in the stories enjoy. I would want glory, for if I cant worship myself, how can others?
What I so awfully want instead, is time. Endless amounts of time to do what I want. To not care all I want. To read of humans and our strange passions. Of how we glorify our loins into our minds, our minds into our hearts, and our hearts into our lives. Of how we try so hard to be profound even in defecatious blog posts that nobody may read. Of how we make up words in the hope that the rest of the world would think it clever, at least half as much as we do. I want time to live forever and have prosaic, pinko-liberal, depreciating, mocking, completely perverted thoughts about everything that ever happens, and then because they are thoughts and not feelings, to mock myself even more when they are forced to confront reality.
But since I cant have that and I don’t care to be cryogenically frozen, as much as that would be interesting, I have no option but to take over sometimes, and instead of writing all the fluffy nonsense that me writes, and truly describe to you how full of potential this world is. How awfully, awfully full of potential it is for the ever-present, indomitable, there-through-the-ages hater of all things – moi.
Hate and murders,
me: so that’s it? Your post, your opportunity to be the writer and not just the evil side-joke is going to be about how you are better than everybody else?
ME: I am. You know it. If you left things to me, you know things would be far better.
me: I doubt it.
ME: please! You know I’d fuck that guy you refuse to want to fuck. And you know I wouldn’t secretly pull in my stomach when I feel self conscious.
me: these conversations are NOT a platform for you to reveal every embarrassing secret I have.
ME: why not? They’re my secrets too, and unlike you, I’m not ok with them. And you know what? I would tell people about the secrets that other people accidently let slip out in front of us instead of protecting it like its any of your problem.
me: well, you’re not in charge. I do what’s good for us.
ME: cut the cord Mom. She secretly enjoys watching the first Sex and the City movie!! She likes watching Mr. Big suffer.
me: only sometimes. you constantly read freaky fanfiction!
ME: they already know that.
me: do they know about whom? It’s –
ME: don’t do it!
me: it’s Rayne! She reads RAYNE fanfiction. Of all the fucked up things, you have to enjoy made up, kinky, positively violent sex between 40 year old hired goon and 17 year old mentally unbalanced assassin.
ME: fine. Just, fine. We’re stopping now. No more weird things to tell people.
me: yeah there are!
ME: I know. Some other time.
P.S. – here are some drawings. Enjoy them with the above dose of unbearably superior angst.
That’s all. No gifs this time. Ok, maybe this-
May be no more drawings for quite a while. I have to draw a certain number before I feel like it’s worth it to go to city and scan.