On Having a Stalker

So I was writing and this came out. It's just a bit of fun. 

"Choking clouds of morons shit themselves into my life and it’s all my fault because I’m on the internet. I’m hooked. Driving, you see billboards, this is the price you pay for being able to visit your friends. The internet has that advertising in your face and it also has millions of benighted spastics desperate to ruin your time. Christ, please Christ return and Christ the fuck out of these shitheads.

You say I am superior with a poor attitude but I beg you to consider the possibility of your own unrecognized fuckwittedness. Are you perhaps a hardened, stinking blockage in some poor enlightened motherfucker’s life? Does some champion with the soul of a lion find the treacly blackness of your pettiness an enemy that cannot be defeated in battle? Are you the dead body blocking the exit? Does a motherfucker need to burn all your shit down before you glimpse the possibility of your soul-deep retardedness? 

Maybe you are not the problem. Genuinely. Maybe you do how to be cool. Maybe you do know it’s possible to get in the way. Maybe you do try to watch your step and if so I want to juice your brain and drink it because I feel like I can use whatever I can get. For every person I trust enough to ask for help there are so many others I believe were sent by the enemy to make my progress an obstacle course where every obstacle is a fuckhead.

God in heaven, who produces these cretins? How hard is it to listen? Who told you to value your shitty opinion so highly? Why does the world not come with trapdoors to whisk you out of my sight every time you open your mouth and rape, yes, rape, the delicate thought palace between my ears? 

We are years into Interwebz World and cockfucking fuck-knobs have only worked out how to use it to magnify their disorders. You know something I don’t about what’s the real problem with the world? Sounds a bit grandiose. How come your answers all involve me buying into your world view so heavily there’d be nothing left of me? 

I don’t even know what I’m talking about. I’m trying to write something hilarious and strangely powerful so people can tell me I’m right on, but really? That’s what I’ve got? Fuckwits exist? Then I must be a fuckwit because everyone knows you don’t make eye contact with fuckwits. Don’t try to fight them, it’s like tapping the side of a nest, they’ll be on you like zombies, drooling their joy, smothering you with their love of today’s drama.

No one is so cuntishly focused on demanding respect as the fuckwit who has done nothing to earn it. You can’t argue with them and I am currently on some weird mission to convince myself of what I already know: some people are a waste of space. Focus on the people who actually have a clue. 

Oh God! What the fuck am I talking about? Have I been poisoned by fuckwits? Am I damaged on a cellular level by too much close contact? Will I ever recover? Have they somehow made me one of them? How will I find my way back? I want to be a good boy! Jesus save me! Save me you fuckhead, it’s kind of your job!"

Fun for me anyway.