Friends Of A Broken World
There’s a motherfucker who assumes J is a friend of his.
Now, definitely J had some role to play for this circumstance to happen over the years, but J would gladly trade the opportunity to fuck a heavenly virgin for the power to make this guy disappear at the times when he starts getting on his already-burnt-out nerves.
Which is, always.
“Is something bothering you?”, he’d ask on such occasions like a fuckin’ slut of a wife who has just arrived after sleeping with a dozen men for cash to spend on her cosmetic surgery.
‘YOU, motherfucker!’, is what J doesn’t say, obviously.
Sometimes, J would silently wonder about the sheer weight of stored-up karma that had attracted these fuckin’ imbeciles in his life.
Take this girl, for example. She wanted feedback from him on her writing a couple of days back.
The work sucked, needless to say. And she considered being ‘open to criticism’ as just another part of her splendid work.
So J texted her three compliments with bright emojis just to make sure she didn’t smell sarcasm. That bitch still could not believe and asked him directly to “critique her work”.
‘Crits’, she said, in fact.
Crits.
Fuckin’ bitch.
Well, how about I come on your ‘tits’…
…and you lick it all up and the chromosomes that enter your esophagus provide the all-important feedback (or crits, my apologies!) to your hippocampus that make you DOUBT YOURSELF before you go out messing someone else’s day!
Well… real life: J gave her one more compliment, too tired to add an emoji.
No response, obviously.
The girl either had an insecurity so fuckin’ deep it needed an emoji per text to calm it down, or…
…or nothing else.
Back to the motherfucker for now.
See, what J loathes is hypocrisy. People can be dumb, imbecilic, cretin, morally-corrupt, physically-disabled, colorblind, insecure, psychopathic, etc. He doesn’t care.
Mostly, it’s not their fault either. As long as the fuckers don’t have some BIG IDEA of what they should be, J is fine.
This motherfucker — he probably won’t own his fecal matter.
Alright, J is me.
Or was me, should I say.
Schizophrenic? Not yet.
Look, third-personing J is just way to tell the universe (kinda hippy, yes) I don’t feel proud telling tales of a time when I was bogged down for even a minute by faithless motherfuckers and tasteless, validation-hungry hoes…
….while trying to monetize (hopefully!) a two-year old bag of feelings decaying in my journal.
