I kinda despise you. A lot.
I don’t like you, that’s for damn sure. Is it loathing?
But it’s not personal. Not at all.
I simply don’t like you, your type, the way you live your fucking impeccably maintained sterile manufactured existence.
Oh god, I despise you. Your hair always so tidy and preset, like a goddamned Ken-doll molding. It’s always the same fucking length, the same style, dude, it’s like your hair is prefabricated bush. How is it your hair is permanent, how does it never never dance or grow or tussle? What on Earth?
And your skin, your fucking peach-face, how can there never be a fraction of a fraction of an inch of excessive hair growth on that calf-skin, even after a full day? Like your hair, your face seems molded and spewed from the clear and plasticly outlined remnants of an artificially designed face. Your complexion seems etched from the Mattel assembly line and it’s perfection. Flawless. Nothing scuffs it, nothing grows where it shouldn’t or for longer than it should. Guys get 5 o’clock shadows, you, you don’t even get an 8:01 shadow. Do you have active hair follicles lying in wait under that serene sheath of facial tissue skin?
Your clothes, immaculate and flawlessly stitched are worn with humorless dignity. Never ruffled, never wrinkled, never stained, cuffed illustriously and creased with the precision of an engineered marvel. What in the world. Even your shoes, those pathways to the dirty ground, to the sludge of our eath, to the gutters and bathroom floors, never look as if they’ve stepped far from your bedroom closet shoe holder. Shiny, glossy, unblemished and unscathed by the shuffling gait of those less than you. Ornaments of virgin perfection capping the ends of your legs, a baffling barrier between your caution and the ravages of a filthy and disorderly world.
Even your goddamned car, so sensible, so European, tailored frighteningly synchronized to your wholesome persona. Sensible but classy, clean, clean, fucking clean. Your car is so goddamned clean. Not a scratch nor a dent nor the faintest smudge of dirt or dust disturbs its glittering paint. Where do you park that at night? In your hope chest? Do you shrink wrap it in the eerily sterile catacombs of your castle each night before closing the garage door? A sensible color too and there is nothing that is not sensible about you.
Your personality is reasonable and understated. Your behavior, your personality, your affect. You are one impeccable SOB. There is nothing out of place or perturbed in that embedded staid personality of yours. You are beyond stoic. You are an artificially disguised human being. You vainly attempt to portray the crass human interloping of the erratic nature of humanity, but the disguise, the vehicle, is too perfect in spite of itself and through perfection you mock humanity, you mock reality, you mock life.
Perfection to the degree it clamors within your walls is the anti-life.
Your being oozes perfection like an overly lubricated blade. No wrong move, no ill-thought out impulsive shit for you. Everything you’ve ever done was the diligent part of a rehearsed and planned course of lifelong action. There are no bends in your road because your road is one long, unquestioning march into oblivion.
You are buttoned-down man.