I’m human. It’s actually my biggest flaw. I’m still susceptible to all the weak ass characteristics of the species and it honestly pisses me off. I hate caring about your feelings. I hate worrying about your well-being. I hate the lasting feeling of utter concern for you when I’m trying to fall asleep at night and when I first wake up in the morning. It sucks.

The worst feeling of them all is that mental ass rash, known as “romantic love.” I pretend like I just robotically skate through this existence as if love has never infected me with its pink fluffy amoebas, but heck…I know of the disease quite well—and yes…I hate it.

I’ve always prided myself as being this ultra rational, logical mf’er…at least that’s how Sam Jackson described me that time we had to fight those clones during that arena style gladiator fight…but that’s a story for a different post. But that damn “love” will have me actively going against my own biological imperative of self sufficiency and outright survival. Nothing else matters but the smile on their face. I can hate their fat putrid, mean guts, and still want them to eat off the gold plates while I eat off the balled-up napkin I scooped out of an old yogurt cup that I found at the bottom of the garbage—garbage from my Uncle Mike’s private stash. Cupid is a hot piece of crystallized pee pee.

I hope romantic love never finds me again. She and her pimply butt, chock-full of poopy feelings, can stay where they are.

Give me loneliness, or give me death…lol. And I mean that.