Another chilly day as we huddle outside on smoke break in a tight circle shooting the daily shit. And there you stand outside of our circle with an oxymoronic expression of rapt attention and feigned disinterest. Like a dog craving the affections of its master you crave to “belong” to our group. To any group. You cautiously wait for the ideal moment to jump into our conversation: to throw in your worthless two cents. Of course, the moment never presents itself. Perhaps the conversation doesn’t suit your tastes. Or perhaps, you simply don’t have the courage. You’ve realized you have absolutely nothing of interest or value to say. You’ve accepted your role, and it’s a dismal one.
Or maybe, WE’RE the uninteresting ones. After all… it’s your world.
I watch you sometimes. You’ll often sit alone dreaming of bygone days when you used to get by with your now faded good looks and repertoire of witty one-liners. We rarely talk. But when we do I’ve noticed the course of our dialog is always carefully steered back to the same tired topic(s) again and again. You. Yes, I am well aware of how much you may have bench-pressed in high school. Yes, I am aware of the fact you used to drive a Lexus. That you hold two degrees. I realize you fuck a lot of women. That you are a fixture in the club circuit. That you have connections all over town, including with the mob. And that you can easily hook me up with any drug of choice. “One call, that’s all.” I’ve heard all of your two-bit stories.
And I don’t believe you.
You tell me things you think I’d want to hear. Like a skillful salesman you establish common ground. You align your interests with mine. On the fly you tweak and modify your personality. And just as quickly change your story when you speak to the next guy. You’re a disingenuous fraud and a fake. A half-baked fabricator of senseless ridiculousness. You are a hollow man. A sham. Smoke and mirrors, lipstick, and glam. A picture-perfect specimen of an aging fucking loser. A nowhere man. You belong in the Smithsonian behind glass right next to wax sculptures of club-wielding Neanderthals, Australopithecines, and various other genetic dead-ends.
I honestly think it’s time you get a fucking clue.
10 comments:
Bullshit still seems to make the world go around. Honesty's a hard virtue to come by, and not a lot of people wear it well.
It's why I continue to be my own best company, but that has its drawbacks as well.
Happy New Year, man.
The Cunt.
He'd be a total moron if "he" doesn't get the message, after this.
Don't you wish "they" read your blog? Damn it if I haven't written about them bastards for months...none of them with the url.
I think today, i'll send an e-mail...
subject: "To all you assholes out there..."
i'm forced to chew on the hard shit before i even think about swallowing it whole.
my anger is my right.
*gulp*
thank you, my prince of darkness ;)
wow you name it!
the part in myself that can oh too well to that what you wrote screams 'horror and scenario! fuck words' he is lying! be cool!'
but i know we all have em in us. don't we....
it s like facing the facts once in a while. and coming to terms with oneself. and admitting that there are a lot of dead ends within ourselves...sort of....
p
A half-baked fabricator of senseless ridiculousness... Love this line, love this piece. I wonder if he was to read it he would find it harsh?
Maybe why you despise this intriguingly deciteful specimen of a man is because he is a mere foreshadowing of your own developing persona?
Then again, I would just be assuming too much. This man is a mere twentieth century merchant.
just a slap on the face. a HARSH slap on the face.
Scribe. Genuine honesty is indeed a hard commodity to come by these days. Perhaps this explains why I have very few friends.
G.D. The interoffice e-mail has been signed, sealed and delivered. Now let's pray I keep my job.
Ma Dukes. C'mon the hard shit ain't that bad. Just a teaspoon of sugar...
Piranha. Lying I can deal with. Who doesn't love a good yarn or eccentricism? It's bravado I cannot stand.
Admin. If he read it he probably wouldn't know it was even about him. He's THAT oblivious.
Colonialave. Perhaps I AM this man. And perhaps this blog is my equivalent to his tales.
Lyza. A good rant can be cathartic.
It's all great, but you really have the art of a brilliant slicing ending - always a worthwhile kick in the teeth at the end. I should have come to expect this here, but you get me everytime.
Then again, perhaps they are the things he needs to hear. The reassurance that not killing himself when he had the Kimber .45 to his lips, the cold steel hard and grating on his teeth in the gloom of his bedroom was the right decision. The old faded wallpaper a reminder of the past when times were better. Perhaps his tongue licks his lips in remembrance of the taste of that cold metal. His blank eyes seeing the slight tremor of his wrist as he tried to hold it in place. The lack of will to go through with it. To end the miserable silence around him. The fear of the crashing soundwave. That he might wake up just as the bullet left the barrel as the noise jolts him a scant moment before the bullet tears a hole in the back of his skull. Spattering the wall with the residue of his life. The memory of your smug repellent look gone forever. Instead, maybe he lurks and tries to tell himself that it's OK that he's alive.
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