so you think you can complain?

At one point or another, a person exhausts his ways to complain about life. Maybe after all that complaining, he should realise that it's all just futile and meaningless anyway. That's what one would think; I mean, how many ways are there, right? Then again, just every once in awhile, he'll find a new way to complain about life and you just have to wonder, is there really a limit to how much a person can complain? You tell me because I haven't yet found said limit.

So, tonight, what is it about you that's got me feeling under? Are you just an asshole? If you had guts, I would break all hell loose on them, even if it took me my last breath, even if it wouldn't hurt you. You know why? It's because you're an asshole and I hate your guts. You see what I did there? I hate your guts therefore I hurt your... Never mind.

Sometimes, I think the world is out to get me, then I remember it doesn't give a fuck and in actuality, I'm out to get myself through my own unfortunate brain which hails all thoughts that are stupid and numb and tired and old; then I ask life why I was given such a useless brain when I could be stupid and ignorant as fuck and drown in the bliss that it supposedly entails. All I get is this murmur; you know, the kind that floats into your ears every time there is complete silence which grows into a wailing screech from the echoes of said silence. Basically, I get nothing so if you like anti-climaxes, well, there you go. Happy birthday, mother fucker.

Who created sad? Bitch should be shot to death. Someone somewhere just decided that depression was a clinical diagnosis and people just went with it. Well, fuck that guy. Who cares if we're sad? You don't get to diagnose us with that shit. If you didn't, we'd have thought we were possessed or haunted or something. At least we wouldn't just be sad. We would be possessed and at least that would be cool... or not; it really doesn't matter as long as you weren't sad; so fuck that dude.

You know what? Fuck this shit, I'm done.