Notes from the fuckerground.

I am a sick man. … I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man.

Am I sick, a demented, a guilt-ridden psychopath?

What am I.



There are moments in this life, this long, arduous life, when I am struck by a tragic truth:  I have fucked over many, many, many people.  In fact, I have displayed no notable skill in this life greater than that I have demonstrated with my uncanny ability to fuck over people.

I have torn, destroyed, damaged, wrought misery, while ambling along stupidly and blithely through this life’s path of my own design.  I have destroyed monuments of humanity and razed towers of virtue.  For what?

For a momentary haze of authority, of numbness, of selfish release.

I sit back, sadly, wracked, and guilt suffuses this tired frame and the realization that fucking over is an absolute spiritual waste, an elemental squandering of humanity.  What was I thinking?  Is this why we seek forgiveness?  To lend some fleeting value to our lost humanity for man’s greatest weight, harshest burden, is the absence of progress and positive psychic motion.

I fucked over those who mattered the most.  A most spiteful man.