Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Sharing is Caring.

A shit ton of the time, I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who understands my motives or intentions. Under the constant scrutiny of my peers, I wonder how it must feel to know me. To know that I may just slip into a self medicated senility and lash out at complete strangers. I enjoy using my middle finger and am not embarrassed by my own actions. I have been known to tell people to "Fuck Off!" for wishing me happy birthday. I still am able to maintain the smile and charisma of Pat Sajak when happily pissing in your Cheerios. It's not that I am insane, it's just that I enjoy the finer things in life. My moral standard is slightly lower than most. I often laugh.

Your fearless leader is a pessimist with optimistic views about the mundane. The sicker the better. I have never watched a bag blow in the wind and referred to it as "beautiful" but I feel I too am artistic. I am a constant skeptic who believes that there is a glass, and if it's half full, at least 10% of it is backwash. If it's half empty, then you should chug it and order another. I observe my surroundings. I generally am at odds with the odds.

Sometime in the near future, I will submit my testimony to the "All Mighty" and be shot down. Not for lack of originality I'd like to believe. Like Lucy, I will have some explaining to do. My words are hurtful and offensive to many, I'm told. They are a razor blade gun pointed at everyone. My intent is not to hurt people but to let them know that I am here. A mosh pit of the language if you will. Jumbled, angry, hilarious use of the English language. (ex. penis surfing midget rapist.) Interesting to read, words that have no earthly meaning but make me smile. Me.

I have been asked to "tone it down" and maybe those who read my garbage would be more prone to associate themselves with it. For those of you who like my style, I will continue. All the shut in readers, those of you who read my work by the light of a near burned out flashlight, I hope you continue to read my shit when you turn 18. Motives for writing should have no motive. When they do, it becomes drab. Out.


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