I don’t complain about life through status updates.
I don’t believe you get a trophy for having over 10 likes and 13 comments. I could be wrong.
But I won’t post about how much I hate you/betrayed me, or photos of my face, or how depressed I am through (insert trending band/pop singer) song lyrics about being a strong person and not needing him/her because you’re better than that or suicide, or about where I’m getting drunk tonight.
Fuck that.
If I’m depressed, I do drugs (L’s and pills), pretend to kill myself, read a book, and walk streets looking for new friends. Cause I’m on my grind. And it can be lonely. And I can be a sociopath, just like the rest of you. (But I’m alive, and amen to that.)
If you piss me off, I’ll open the ink wells in your neck with a razor blade, and I will put a .22 caliber bullet directly into the cranium of a guilty by-stander with a cross body shot and a handgun. Some wild west shit.
I will write your malfunctioning body a short angry letter in finger-paint cause I’m old school + you won’t be able to read it because when your body is malfunctioning, your mind can only focus on what’s wrong with you.
It will be on a sheet of loose-leaf ripped out of a middle school notebook:
“Yo. Fuck off. Sincerely, _____.”
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