I should preface this by saying that I am aware of how paranoid and self-centered I can be.
So, I don’t know if I have to tell you this, but I’m pretty sure I’m weird. Sometimes, I blurt things out and people look at me like I just professed a love for drawing chalk dicks on playgrounds. I like pro wrestling, which is somewhere between childish and gay. I don’t care for the work of Adam Levine and liking Adam Levine is the most normal thing a person can do. So, I occasionally project that feeling onto other people.
If I’m walking down the street and someone laughs, it’s because I did something stupid. They could be looking in the opposite direction with their finger pointing at whatever they’re laughing at and I’ll be convinced that they were holding in their laughter while they came up with another thing to laugh at so they wouldn’t hurt my feelings. This makes it hard for me to meet people and make friends, especially in the last month I’ve spent living away from home for the first time.
There’s this one guy in my building who is always smiling and I’m convinced that it’s because he’s laughing at me. He’s a seemingly well-adjusted man of good nutrition and workout habits, so why wouldn’t he laugh at the out-of-shape mental wreck living down the hall from him? Without fail, he’s always smiling. That dick. Being happy and shit. Jerkoff.
Today, he gets on the elevator with this girl. I just want to do my laundry and this dickhead shows up with a girl to rub in the fact that I’m lonely and he’s not. The girl looks at me and says something, but I can’t hear her because I have my headphones in, so I pull them out. “No, not you,” she says, so I put them back in. “Hey, what do you think of this girl’s ass? Yes, you.” She points her iPhone at me and there’s a picture of a pale, single-pimpled ass shining at me.
the fuck, man?
I’m already certain that I’m a fucking weirdo. Don’t rub it in by assuming that I’m going to be all hunky dory with you showing me a picture of what I’m sure was a man’s ass. Fucking be normal. I don’t even know your name. Why am I face to face with someone’s asshole? Why the fuck do you have a picture of some random ass on your phone? Why am I weird one in this equation? Is it because you have a friend to have a giggle fit with when I look annoyed? So, if I have two friends to your one friend and we giggle when you look stupid, I win? Is that how life works? Obviously, I am absolutely dumbfounded by this entire…I can’t even call it a conversation. Encounter? Burden? I took my headphones out for you and you had nothing of worth to offer. Why do you exist?
I’m taking the stairs from now on. It doesn’t make much of a difference, but if someone in the stairwell shows me a picture of an ass, at least I can throw their phone down the stairs.
I’ve never been one for romanticism. It’s a process that forces me to cater to a woman’s needs and that makes me feel vulnerable, so no. With that said, I’m very lonely, so I decided to join the world of online dating. I’ve heard that a lot of these sites are filled with crazy people or try to charge you for little to no results, so I decided to join an upstart network with a select userbase.
Perfect. This is my story.
I answered the questionnaire as honestly as a bad boy can.
I fibbed a little bit on my age. What’s a year to the open-minded lady that I tend to attract? On the negative side, this website obviously wanted to invade my privacy and I can’t have that…or can I?
Enter, don’t mind if I do…it.
My picture with Daniel Bryan was apparently toohot to be a profile picture, so I settled on this.
I’ll let you know when the results come rolling in.
So many people come here looking for help. I can’t be helped. I want to help. Please don’t be like me.
I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ve been a neat freak my entire life. I’ve been told I have OCD. I own three dusters, so it’s hard to disagree. It wasn’t bad enough to keep me from living a normal life. Generally, it didn’t bother me if something was unclean as long as it didn’t belong to me, but my home was my domain. The other day, I came home from classes. Everything was in its place. Everything was spotless. Everything was perfect, just the way I left it. I sat down at the computer and started to work on an essay. I was in an Intro to Psych class and, with a promise for more hours from my supervisor echoing in the back of my mind, I decided to start my final essay early. It was going to be about obsession. If I could write about anything, it would be that, right? No. Something was off. Something was making me uncomfortable.
Fuzz. A bit of fuzz in the upper right quadrant of my monitor. I got a tissue and wiped the fuzzy bit from my monitor. No water necessary. Besides, I didn’t want to leave streaks. I wrapped the tissue around the fuzz so it couldn’t escape and I threw it into the garbage can. Everything was right again.
The next day, I went to my classes. When I came home, everything was as I left it. Perfect. Not a hair out of place, that is, if I were normal and owned pets that could displace their fur. If I could allow myself to just enjoy dirty things, I’d be fine, but the mere thought of being unclean makes my skin crawl. The thought of myself sitting amongst the fuzz and the dirt is worse than death. Sorry. I want to help you. I’ll stop indulging myself. It’s not like I have the time for it.
I came home from my classes. Nothing had changed. Nothing had been moved. Nothing had been sullied. My home was perfect except for one thing: that goddamn computer screen. More fuzz. Maybe the static electricity was attracting it, but that didn’t explain where it was coming from. I must have neglected a spot in my daily cleaning sessions. So, I checked. I looked under the couch. I looked under the bed. I looked under everything. I looked on top of the blades of the ceiling fan. I checked to see if anything was hanging out of the vacuum cleaner. Anything I could have missed. Nothing. Nothing at all. I gave up. I got a tissue. I went back to the computer screen. I wrapped the tissue around the fuzz. I took the tissue to the kitchen and put it in the garbage. I closed the lid down. When I went to bed, I turned off the computer and the monitor. That should have taken care of it.
When I woke up yesterday, everything seemed fine. I did my usual morning routine. Got out of bed. Stretched. Ate breakfast. Took a shower. Brushed my teeth. I watched myself in the mirror. My face was unblemished as usual, but I looked tired. Worn out. I had no idea what worn out was then. I leaned over to spit out the toothpaste. Made sure to rinse every bit of it away. When I looked up, there was some fuzz on the upper right corner of the mirror. I had to climb halfway onto the sink just to get it down. How did I miss it? I couldn’t have. It wasn’t there when I looked down. It was fucking with me. I put it in the toilet. I flushed it. It should have stayed away.
You know the routine by now. I went to classes. I came back home. It was worse. The fuzz had travelled to the kitchen. The sink had bits of fuzz in it. The counter was coated in dust, fuzz sent through the wringer until even the pretty wispiness disappeared in a dearth of dryness. That wasn’t too horrible. Dirty, sure, but it wasn’t impossible to fix. I vacuumed up all the fuzz and washed off the counter with a cloth. I filled the sink with hot soapy water and vinegar and let it sit for an hour. While I waited, I mopped the floor. By the time I finished, it was already 10. I had wasted my entire evening. I wanted to work on my paper, so I got a TV dinner out of the freezer. I took it our of the box and made sure to dispose of all the plastic it was encased in. As I walked to the microwave, I thought I might be getting better. I had never thought of cleaning as a waste of time before. I opened the microwave. Fuzz.
I woke up on the kitchen floor. I don’t know how long I was out, but it was enough time that my tortmenter had tired of subtlety. Every monitor. Every mirror. Every window. Every glass surface was covered in fuzz. I had enough. I skipped my classes. I called off of work. I cleaned every inch of it. Every glass surface. Every surface that touched the glass surfaces. Every surface that touched those surfaces. Eventually, I settled on cleaning the entire apartment. As I went along, I found fuzz hidden in nooks and crannies. Every drawer had a little bit of fuzz in it. A smidge of fuzz hid inside every lampshade. Fuzz was wedged into the crevice on the underside of the milk jug in the fridge. As I tried to remove every bit of fuzz from between the tiles on the bathroom floor, exhaustion set in. I passed out again.
When I woke up, it was back. Every surface. Glass. Wood. Plastic. Porcelain. All had been replaced by fuzz. Once I stood, I looked down at the fuzz outline that had surrounded me. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a small opening in the fuzz that had covered the mirror. This had to be deliberate. Whatever the fuzz wanted me to know, it was in that hole. I leaned over the sink and looked into the mirror. I thought I’d see an answer or a solution, maybe even some kind of fuzz world with fuzz creatures that I’d have to conquer to end my fuzzy torture. All I saw was an even tinier bit of fuzz. I blew at it. It didn’t budge. None of the fuzz moved. I tried to touch the fuzz that had covered the mirror. I couldn’t. It was inside the mirror. I know what you’re thinking. That solves it. Get rid of the mirror. Get rid of everything inhabited by fuzz and it’s gone.
I put my eye back up to the opening in the mirror. The tiny bit of fuzz remained in the middle of the opening, but it wasn’t like the fuzz that covered the rest of the mirror. Framed against my pupil, it looked finer than the fuzz I had been seeing, but it was still just as white and wispy as the rest of it. I thought there had to be something to this fuzz. I tried to moving my eye within the confines of the opening to look at the little fuzz from an angle, but it remained framed against my pupil. I thought I was seeing things. I rubbed my eyes and blinked a few times. I felt the fuzz. I got the message, so you’ll have to excuse me now. I have some tidying to do.
To begin, I will tell you that I’m not about to reinvent the wheel. I’m going to talk about how dumb love is and how the Hallmark Card Company is more evil than Hitler harnessing Mothra to finish the Final Solution. If you’re looking for originality, get off the Internet and read a book.
With that out of the way, Valentine’s Day is bullshit. I can’t believe I have to say that to anyone and hope I haven’t offended their sensibilities. Christmas has a heritage. Thanksgiving has history. Valentine’s Day has paper hearts duct taped to walls. It’s a bigger cash grab than those paper cut machines/money cyclone games.
Now, I know pointing that out makes me a dick and, as anyone with even the smallest bit of common sense could figure out, it’s the reason that I’m alone. I don’t have an issue with that. OK, I do, but I don’t expect anyone to make up for it for me. I refuse to make concessions about who I am, but I don’t expect anyone else to make concessions for me. Valentine’s Day, on the other hand, has turned into the day that happy together people decide to talk about how lonely people are jealous of them.
Some of that can be blamed on social networking making everyone think that whatever happens to be spilling out of their brains that particular day is incredible, but have some self-awareness. I don’t expect anyone to tell me I’m awesome for this. I’d be surprised if anyone reads it since most of you will be spending tonight penetrating and/or being penetrated. Regardless, if you’re not a fan of Valentine’s Day or the entire concept of love, today is the day where you’re supposed to feel bad for it and realize the error of your ways and find the person that you are meant to be with. If you’re currently in a relationship, stop reading here and have a nice night sweating on your significant other.
For the rest of us, here’s what Valentine’s Day is. You leave the house and the people on the radio remind you that you’re alone. You get to school or work and there are Factory Card Outlet hearts on a clothesline. Another reminder. All the happy people want to talk about is how they’re going to do something happy with their happy partner and that somehow means that they’ll be happy forever. Then, you go home and you nurse something far too alcoholic to drink alone. You try to watch TV, but everything on TV is love-themed. You try to go on the Internet, but all you see is people flaunting how happy they are with their happy happy. Then, you go to bed, either miserable or trained to be emotionless and you try to sleep, but you’re too busy thinking about that person you wish you were with (who is likely happy, since not happy people aren’t desirable), so you decide to rub one out so you can just end this depressing day, but right after you finish, you look at the airtight daddy-issued bimbo that you ended up on and think “Jesus, even she’s happy, isn’t she?”
And then you cry by yourself because you couldn’t cry in public because that would be raining on the happy people parade.
And when it comes down to it, it’s not really all that different to any other day. The only difference is that, today, you’re not supposed to talk about it because that would be rude to the happy people, unlike public displays of affection, which are just how happy people prove how happy they are to all the other happy people because, to them, everyone is happy.
After a half hour of writing, I realize that I don’t really have a point here. I’m just rambling. So, I’ll just list the rest of my issues because this isn’t making me feel any better anyway.
- If you’re a guy that chose to invest in a Valentine’s Day present, you’re a sap.
- If you’re a girl that pushed your boyfriend into investing in a Valentine’s Day present, you’re a self-centered bitch.
- Everyone at the Hallmark Card Company is profiting off of peer pressure and that makes them horrible people.
- The only way a relationship ends happily is if both parties die in a relatively painless car crash. Otherwise, you’re either going to break up and be sad or be together until one of you dies and then the remaining party will be sad.
I just want to create a separate YouTube account for something that I want separate from other things, but no. I close out my old account and HEY HEY REMEMBER GOOGLE+? Well, that’s my YouTube account now. NO I CAN’T HAVE ANOTHER ACCOUNT. This is my one and only account now and the more I support Google, the more website they are going to buy to assimilate into a big mass of Google.
I want to love you so bad, Google. Why do you hurt me? I love Reader. I love Search. I love Reader so much that I put it before Search. I love Maps. I love you and you’re just like “Nah, fuck you. One account for you. That’s it. LALALALA CAN’T HEAR YOU, DON’T CARE.”
I’m making my own tech startup. It’s called Loogie and I hope it never leaves your eyesight. Dicks.
Nobody reads this. I already know that. That said, I hope to someday reach a point where I have an actual career that involves writing in some form or, if things go according to plan, many forms. Kid Bitter is the center piece of that. It’s my rap name. It’s my Twitter name. It’s a character. A persona that I haven’t actually used yet. It’s going to be a YouTube channel when I can be arsed to get rid of my old one.
The bullshit part is more important.
I was once a young boy. I still am and anyone that believes they aren’t at the age of 21 might as well resign themselves to a career in canary watching because they have stuffed themselves so far up their own asses that the slightest twitch will send their entire rectum collapsing into itself. Regardless, I was a young boy and there was something that I didn’t want my father to know.
I can’t tell you what that something was. It was probably something to do with missed homework. I couldn’t tell you. What I can tell you is what my dad said. He looked at me and he said “You can’t bullshit a bullshitter”. He was trying to imply that I couldn’t bullshit him. What he didn’t realize was that he gave me a new life goal.
To become the ultimate bullshitter.
But that’s beside the point. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. I don’t want to bullshit a single thing in my career. I want everything I get to come from hard work or whatever part of writing jokes or raps or acting like another person comes closest to actually being work. So, whether it’s my tumblr, my Twitter, my stand-up, my rap, my acting, my slacking, or my actions, they’re going to be mine.
Whatever it is, I’m not going to bullshit that bullshit.