KB
What would you do if you knew the absolute worst person in the world?
I guess I'd stop finding all of my friends on Craigslist. The dollar has really tanked lately. Can’t buy anything worth a damn with it anymore.
I blame Antifa, Bitcoin, and Communism.
Seriously though, what would you do?
Why do you always insist on speaking in hypotheticals?
Of course I know him. He’s me.
You?
Mate, have I ever once neglected to mention that I am truly, madly, deeply awash in self-loathing?
I bathe in the filth that is my own meager ability and utterly putrid, incessant inner dialogue. Buddy, you gotta get the heck outta me. Frick off and kick rocks, in whichever order you prefer. I’m not a stickler for routine but I’m sure as hell tired of poutine up with your misanthropy.
Canada has put you on the no-fly list for that terrible pun.
I hope it was worth it.
Goodbye, sweet universal healthcare. I hardly knew ye. I don’t know if I can pretend to care about hockey enough to move there anyway.
One of these days you’ll finally heed my calls to get lost.
Is ~ get lost to find yourself ~ the most tepid bit of life advice ever thought up by Generation X? More like ummmmm Generation Next please, right?
I wish I could fast-forward through your life bud.
How about a rewind function too while you're at it?
What could I possibly use that for?
You could tell yourself that you miss the old me and discover how much you’ve come to loathe that carefree bastard.
Where does he get off being happy? Why does he think he is allowed to enjoy things totally immersed in the flow of life? Concerned with no moment but the present. Clear of conscience and free of guilt.
How does that goofy bastard not realize he is supposed to be irreparably miserable like me? When will he know I’ve come to crave the merest hint of an allusion to, the cheekiest suggestion of, the tiniest spark of an endorphin rush?
Can’t even crack a smile because this depression has been cast in an unbreakable mold of diamonds; emerging dingy, tainted, and bloodstained when finally unearthed from the mines of my blaggard of a soul.
It sounds like you're hinting not so subtly that you are an as-of-yet undiscovered diamond in the rough.
Maybe I am.
Do you think you’re gonna be famous one day?
Yeah, I do. Absolutely.
Why? You certainly don’t have the ability.
Correction, any ability at all whatsoever.
It’s not because I think I’m talented enough.
However, I am self-aware enough to know that in reality, I’m too stupid to realize I shouldn’t be so wildly overconfident of my meager abilities. Thus, I will most assuredly stumble dick first into fame.
It so often seeks out the least deserving and most vocal proponents of the unshakeable belief in the manifest supremacy of their destinies. Of the 15 minutes to shine afforded to all Americans by virtue of their good fortune and the grace of God to be born in these here United States.
It’s all enumerated very clearly in the Bill of Rights.
Really?
I don’t fucking know man. I’ve only ever read the Second Amendment and lightly skimmed the First.
We gotta stop letting JV football coaches teach ninth-grade government classes.
I'll tell you one thing for sure though.
What's that?
I have the god-given right to bear these sick fucking pythons. And another thing, lil mama over there has the right to rock those sweater puppies with a righteous fury.
That’s my wife you’re talking about, sir.
Well, tell her not to be so rude.
Rude?
Yeah. I can’t fucking think with Tits McGee over there distracting me with the great wall of cleavage.
Stop casually undressing her with your eyes you ruffian or I’ll mace you. I sweatergawd.
I’m immune to mace. I have been genetically modified.
That’s what your parents chose?
How was that the only thing they wanted to fix with you?
They had a whole laundry list of goals but the couple behind them at the clinic kept doing that annoying throat-clearing thing that implied that their time was more valuable than anyone else's and so help you god if you didn't hurry the fuck up and get out of dodge.
What do you wish they had chosen?
I long for what we all yearn for.
A text back?
Well yeah, that and immortality.
Through hook, crook, or shook, baby. I’m here till this gaseous ball of dust implodes on itself.
Who says it hasn’t already done so?
Don’t you ever feel like you’re already dead?
What do you mean?
Like this is the afterlife already.
Every second spent with you is a lifetime in hell brother. So if we were there, I would know it.
Okay fine.
What would you do if you knew you were going to die?
Am I hella sick?
Or am I taking a small leap off a tall building?
What’s the difference?
Well, the sense of agency involved.
If I’ve got terminal bone marrow cancer or some shit it’s a rather somber affair. Make-A-Wish rings me up and lets me motorboat Katy Perry or whichever starlet has the worst and obviously the most coked-out agent at the moment.
Hold on. I just need to tweet that ridiculously salacious bit of sexism to Orlando Bloom.
Did you really think you’d get away with that comment about his wife without facing the wrath of God from Legolas?
He had three shots to bring down that Uruk-Hai kamikaze bastard at Helm's Deep and totally muffed it. So I think I'll take my chances with Will Turner okay?
Anyway, if you jump off a parking garage you’ll likely end up in an overwrought pop song about the importance of speaking up about your pain.
Now, please tell me why the fuck would I speak up about my pain if I want to kill myself? I literally want to die. Not gonna let you know I’m feeling a bit bothered.
That’s like me planning on burning my face off with acid later that afternoon and sending you a quick text.
'By the way, feeling a bit crispy from the sun today. Don’t forget to wear your lotion xoxo.'
Your awful tan lines notwithstanding, does hating yourself preclude oneself from helping others?
You might believe that you are a massive waste of space. But why wouldn’t you want your homies to be better people in your absence at least? Everybody has their demons, pal.
If I can’t kill mine how I can kill yours?
Maybe your demons are pussies.
You are what you eat after all.
Pal, if that was the case, you’d be a sentient pizza roll.
