Friday, June 29, 2007

Brashy, bratty and bitter.


Hooowaaahhhht?!!? Why do I have to always explain things that I shouldn’t in the first place? Enough of telling people around. Screw understanding. This just cements everything that I have come to believe about people and why they should quit telling they know what you feel and they understand. They don’t fucking understand you because they can never fit in your shoe. Bratty? What’s the fucking big deal about it? Bratty is for sissies and elitist dimwits who get what they want at the flick of their fingers. But the world doesn’t work like that man. Perhaps for all you self-deluded pricks and your thinly imagined world of banalities. Not for me and not for all those people who are going through a lot of shit.

Photocredit: Thanks to ka0rg for the caricature

4 comments:

aajao said...

lol. i hope you're ok. i was having double-thoughts on whether to post a comment or not. you might yell at me. :p

Anonymous said...

wtf??

jayclops said...

hahaha. i think u referred to the previous gibberish by some unknown alien. i was actually reading it when the time u probably posted this. yeah, wtf??

Jap said...

you don't explain to those people. you give them the finger and then you walk away =)

Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family, Choose a f—king big television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose a three piece suit on hire purchased in a range of f—king fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the f—k you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing f—king junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, f—ked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose a future. Choose life . . . But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?

Renton, Trainspotting