scum, hollow scum. scum in flamboyant shoes.
(velvet, were they?)
scum in my home and on my property. you are a vacuum, a vortex with an odd head, reeling in all things positive within your grubby reach, and defecating. with a chuckle.
(a self-assured chuckle i vouch you have practiced many a time in your mirror.)
the image is well known. It fits a fairly universal paradigm. So rest assured, we all know the character you are playing within five minutes of your feigned boredom. yet you inspire me, with such uncommon dedication and diligence. costumes, props even! twenty-four seven. your ambition is commendable, you fucking primate.
i wonder, every time i have the displeasure of meeting you, if you are aware of the script that dictates your monologues, and if you forget that you’re doing it once making up shit becomes habitual. is it different, primate, when you’re alone? in the shower perhaps, or while falling asleep? when there’s no one to play pretend with? hmm?
flaunting the achievements you dreamt up while contemplating the most appropriate face to deliver them with. picking fights with strangers, because, wow, gee whiz, you’re so CRAZY like that. hinting at a dark past and troubled life you never experienced because nothing about you is appealing or special.
here’s the problem, chum. lately i find it increasingly difficult to maintain my decorum in your presence. and thanks to an undue lack of wizard powers, i cannot make you disappear. thus, i must endure you. like the large, strangely well-centered prom night nose pimple. know, in case you ever come across this, that I would sooner chew the skin off of my own fingers than waste another second of my life on you and your velvet fucking shoes.