Diary of A Mad Black Masochist

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I was going to open this post with one of my favorite blurts from my pal, Ernest (Hemingway). But I feel like my minions and the genuinely curious souls that find themselves frequenting this site don’t need to be reminded with just how highly I think of my intellectual status. So, how about that Patriots game?

….. Are they still looking? Cool.

It’s been brought to my attention lately that there is a general consensus in regards to my personal life, that is as follows: (and these are direct quotes)
“You have the emotional depth of a tampon”
…which I think is a little extreme, but alas, everyone is supposedly entitled to an opinion. The spectrum gets even wider, when in the same 24 hours I also heard,
“You require a lot more attention than you lead people to believe. I don’t think you’re as tough as you think you are.”

Alright my dear fuckers, number one: my capacity for displaying a specific range of emotion is no one’s business but my own. I don’t think drawing conclusions that contain the word ‘sociopath’ based solely off of my lack of interest on your most recent pins to your ‘dream wedding’ board is exactly fair. With that said, I owe no one any sort of explanation as to why I am the way that I am. Do not let this post fool you, for the only reason I am publicly addressing this topic is to send a firm and final message that I am in no way embarrassed or regretful of who I have become. In fact, I’m quite proud of the fact that I don’t threaten suicide every time the guy at Starbucks ignores my request for NO FOAM, ass hole. I think emotional maturity is perhaps one of the most underrated characteristics a person can possess. And I for one am going to make it my priority to not conform to being a huge soggy pussy just because that’s what has been easiest for other people. I’m a BillyBadass. Always have been and always will be. My fetish for independence is not an omission of weakness nor an intolerance for being taken care of. It simply means, there’s nothing my mother, a bible, or a man can do for me, that I can’t do for myself. And unless you want me screenshotting your depression lyrical status updates every third Tuesday of the month, I suggest rethinking my lack of impulsive emotional purging.

I could go on, but my benedryl has started to kick in, and I don’t like to be awake when the walls start to cry and reach for me.

Tootles

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