Thursday, January 24, 2013
How Much I Hate You
You make me sick. The thought of you is affecting me in irrational and alarming ways. When you are near I can smell the stink of your sweat, and my mind races while I try to understand why everyone else doesn't feel the same urge to rid you of the odor by forcefully drowning your pathetic, kicking frame in the nearest stagnant gutter.
I hope your mother knows how much worse the world is with you in it. I hope she walks into the path of some slow-moving farm equipment with the full realization that the backseat display of obese lust with an anonymous vagrant all those years ago was her greatest mistake. A problem that would have been best solved by falling down a few flights of stairs during the third trimester.
Sometimes I daydream about watching you die. But not in any grand, dramatic, or cruel ways. Just embarrassing and pathetic ones. I think about your family finding your corpse hanging in a closet after a cut-corners auto-erotic session with your tiny, limp penis in hand. I think about how devastated they would be when the coroner's photographs are leaked to the public and become a particularly popular internet meme, complete with cheap, mass produced t-shirts and even an award-winning iphone app. And how your wife and kids would be so ashamed that they would change their names and deny your existence for the rest of their lives, making sure that your memory would be completely extinguished.
I want to be there when you fail. But not the gradual path of poor decisions and bad luck that lead you to a final state of disgrace and despair, but only after achieving great success. I hope you get everything you ever wanted, professionally and personally, then lose everything after a false accusation of being a particularly prolific child molester. I want you watch it all slip away and go from the happiest you have ever been to suicide in a matter of weeks. And after making that dark decision to put a final end to your suffering by slobbering on the end of a shotgun, I hope you fail at suicide. I hope you wake up disfigured but mentally acute. I want your recently estranged family to be forced to pay for the cripplingly-expensive medical care so they grow to add contempt to the short list of feelings they have for you, just after shame and pity.