I think it’s imperative for all men to know what’s it’s like to get their asses handed to them, a proper beatdown till it gets through our thick skulls that we aren’t special – we never were. But, of course, like some cosmic salt in the wound, there are the one-in-the-million people who come out of their mother’s crotch destined for greatness, who were fed with a golden spoon by God Himself. Fuck them. They who have the smile of Apollo or the talent of Michelangelo or the makings of a varsity athlete, they’ll smile their way through life, laughing their way to the bank while the sun perennially shines out of their assholes. They’ll never know what it’s like to sit alone by the dance floor or to witness the cold hard stares of passersby, the pains of being a lonely nobody who has failed at everything he has ever attempted. No, their suffering comes in a lesser form, for we all suffer in life, even the winners, their suffering comes from the vacuous nature of being result orientated machines. Since they get it all, the friends, the girls, the insta-worthy memories on their smart phones, they only receive satisfaction in the obtainment of the object of their desires. Kind of like a junky waiting to get his next high, in the in-between there’s nothing – a buzzing, numbing nothing. As they wait in line for their chipotle bowl, their eyes go dim and their smiles grow cold like a painted worn-out doll. Those perfect specimen who have never struggled for anything in their lives, and I mean struggle – not some p90x workout routine where the “pain” is manufactured and packaged in a timeslot, but a struggle that comes as an existential shock, will never taste the fruit of self-hatred and misanthropy. The struggle where you say to yourself, “If I don’t make it this time, that’s it for me, no money, no dreams, I wonder what’s the fastest and most painless way to kill myself.” After saying this to yourself for the umpteenth time, then you know you’ve actually struggled. And with that, you’ve hit a bottom, not rock bottom, but close enough. You begin to fantasize the end of the world and scenarios where none of us make it. And while you wait behind the perfect specimen in line for your chipotle order; you smile at the mad thoughts swirling in your head, for one day one of those fantasies will come true, and when it does, you will shrug your shoulders and laugh, while the perfect specimen panic and scream, for they don’t know what’s it like to lose nothing, nothing at all.

Signing out, Vermin in Chief.