184. I hate

I hate my job. I hate every fucking minute of it. Every goddamn useless task. Every annoying little shit I run into in the hallway.

I want to pummel my so-called colleagues in the face until all there’s left is a mad, hysterical pulp. I count the minutes till I’m rid of them, the angry hipsters who jump in limousines with howling chinks and crafty coots. Who cahoot with bling-bling negroes in Turkish baths, burning money, tapping ass.

I hate my girlfriend too. The skanky, slutty blonde with big breasts I bang ‘most every night not because I love her but I loathe her. I want her to feel my contempt when I cum in her, she makes me sick. I cheat on the yacketayakking bitch with tortilla prostitutes half her age and twice as perverted.

My shrink says I do these things and say this stuff because in truth I hate myself. But I say: fuck him, with his fancy diplomas and condescending timbre and that full-grown filthy beard he strokes as a genital substitute every time he thinks he’s right.

But he’s not.

Cause I hate the traffic and the Madison flannel people in their ghastly cars, those hideous metal coffins that clog the city with their stink and claxons.

I hate the bums that spit out boozy breath and cloud the brightest day with their pushcarts full of onions.

I hate the church, the pederasts that play with kids and cock and lots of balls.

I am the best mind of my generation.

And I hate.

I hate.

I hate.

 

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