I believed in happy endings once upon a time. I really did. But the truth of the matter is that everything good in this goddess-forsaken world is a momentary thought. We spend all our time seeking that perfect moment, and when we attain it, and it stays with us, we forget why we sought it in the first place. That’s when things start to fall apart. Irreversibly spiralling into an oblivion of self loathing and idiocy.

We fuck things up. We make the mistake of believing that there is something better out there than what we thought was our perfect experience. And when it all crumbles around us, only then we finally see the truth of the matter. That we had it and we fucked it up. I knew love up until recently, and I gotta tell you, hate is a lot more simple and straight forward. It’s so much easier to hate than to love because hate, only requires you to look at someone and push them out of your sphere of exsistance. Tear them apart with thoughts of viciousness and destruction. Sure, maybe you’ll jump the object of your loathing, punch them around abit, fuck them over however you can, but that is the extent of it. Hate is intimate, sure, but intimate without the work.

Love on the other hand is something entirely more difficult. You see, I’m an asshole. I hate most of this society we live in today. There’s even a good chance I probably hate you, my dear reader. But love, that’s a nipple twister. Love is something that we all aspire to attain on every level of exsistance. We want our families to love us, we want our Mrs (or Mr) right to love us, we want our co-workers, friends, everyone to love us. But how many of us are really comitted to loving others? It takes patience, comprimise, overlooking the faults of those around us, and believing in them. That’s a lot of fucking work isn’t it? And what for? So in the end, we can hear those three words and believe them to be true, even if they aren’t? How fucking narcissitic are we?

Love is a selfish aspiration, and when we do manage to attain it, a very very very small portion of our cancer stain of a population actually manages not to fuck it up. So what the fuck is the point in the end? Seriously. Everything begins with good intentions and feelings of so-called love, but it all turns to shit eventually doesn’t it? No matter how hard we try, or how much we actually fucking care, love ends in suffering. Either by the eventual breaking of those involved in this sordid drama, or if we manage to pull it together long enough, death is forced to intervene on our pathetic behalf. Love is not forever, love only has a life span of a few short years. Even in the end of ends, love does not transcend some illusory border of our imagination and continue on into some twisted mockery of an afterlife. It dies, with us, and gets buried in the ground with us.

And yet, we still strive to believe in it, and focus our entire exsistance around it, because for some sick reason, we believe that somehow it validates our exsistance. By giving our world to someone we “love”, we somehow believe that our pathetic lives are complete. But the truth of the matter is, we’re just indulging some pro-creative, biological imperative to continue the worthless succession of our virus of a race.

Aren’t I just a barrel of laughs? Stay tuned, I might actually just write more shit for you to loathe me for. Ah, but then again, I’m being presumptous aren’t I? Hmm, guess I am a narcissist after all.