Lonely

Sometimes I hear you talking
about that one
that you wish you still had,
about the others
that you can have,
and all I can think about
is that
I have neither of those.

Even trade: my problems for yours. No takebacks.

Lust

I really want to
stick my dick in

something.

Maybe it can be you?
It's nothing
personal,
but it looks like you probably
have a vagina;
that's what I'm looking for.

We could cuddle
afterwords.
That would give me time
to get ready
to stick it in again.

Interview With Bitterness

You seem a little touchy, what brings you here?

It's not enough. Nothing is enough, but this isn't enough. This sure as hell isn't enough. These people--the stench of them all around--are putrid sacks of dog vomit that contribute nothing to the world but a little bit of carbon every time they exhale. We have enough fucking carbon, at least that's what the newspapers say. Reduce the footprint. Reduce the footprint! REDUCE THE FUCKING FOOTPRINT! I'd like to reduce them. Reduce them one by one. Extract their atoms and make something more useful out of them--like a tree. Anything to dull the insipid voices repeating generations of platitudes and insincere soundbites in hopes of drawing a useless mate that doesn't think too much.

It sounds like you're lonely.

Of course I'm fucking lonely. That's the goddamned point. Years of this tweedle-dee fuckery, and what do have to show for it? A fucking case of blue balls and an overwhelming desire to scream, to yell, to break shit whenever I am surrounded by the stupidity that I force myself to participate in. The great quest for a fuckhole. The constant feeling around for a connection that I know I'm missing but I'm not sure when I fucking lost it.

Yeah, I fucking lost it.

It's long gone. Everywhere I go, people seem to just trip over these fucking connections. Never seeing them, never fucking looking for them, but always finding them. I tried that shit. I stopped looking for years. You know what? Didn't trip over shit. Every time I get fucking happy that I fly solo, everyone gets a goddamned copilot. They make it look so fucking easy. It's not easy. I know. It's a big shit sandwich in a wrapper made out of gold; put that shit in a blue box and everyone wants a piece. Peel back the layers of the onion and you get to the rotten fucking chewy center.

Why do you think you feel so negatively about others experiencing a joy that you crave yourself?

Well cumscab, I'm not called bitter for no good reason. You want me to pull some introspective shit?

Yes, please do.

Well I'm not gonna go all Freud on ya. Mommy and Daddy gave at least a fuck each about me. So I suppose that puts me two fucks ahead of most losers. The truth is, it's hard to watch people just fall into things that bring them a kind of joy that you just can't seem to find. Try looking for it? Makes you sick. Try avoiding it? Makes you lonely. Get to the point where you're fucking okay without it? It gets thrown in your face at every single motherfucking opportunity. Nah, that's not fair, it doesn't get thrown in your face. It just feels like it. That's really what I'm concerned with here, how things feel.

Isn't that awfully self-centered of you?

Yeah, you got a problem with that?

Yes. I also think that the problem that's causing you to exist is probably caused by that same self-centered attitude and how you feed it.

That's right motherfucker. I'm self-perpetuating. You can't fucking ignore me. I'll just come back with a vengance.

It seems to me that your very attitude is likely to prevent self-perpetuation of any kind.

You know what buddy? Fuck you.