You...

Always remember, it’s your fucking fault. It’s your fault that you’re fat, that you’re poor, that you consistently underachieve and that you pick relationships where getting hurt is the norm. And any self help book that’s telling you otherwise is selling lies. It’s your fault that you’re buying those lies, you fuck.

But I won’t blame you totally. You’re not entirely without hope. You hope that things will improve soon and that it’ll stop hurting out of some sense of cosmic fairness, nice fuck that you are. Thing is, the capacity of the human mind to sustain torture consistently befuddles me.
Convincing yourself time and again that somehow things will improve beyond what they are when all you’re doing is the same thing over and over again is tantamount to criminal insanity. Entropy is something that’ll always screw you over. Get that into your pansy little head, (again) you ginormofuck.

Find that hard to palate? How about we make this about the noblest, nicest, warmest and fuzziest reason of all… Vengeance. You do want to drive into your ex’s birthday party in a Maserati with an oversexed Russian model for a twinkie, don’t you? Or gift him/her a laser guided bomb beacon and watch the fun explode as you watch from your sniper scope. Or whatever else turns you on, you sick pervert.

You, O mighty king of the duffers, are the only person in the clusterfuck that is the cosmos who’s ever going to look out for you. Write that down on your forehead in reverse and look into a mirror if it’s too difficult to remember. But do yourself a favour and get a life. It’s worth it, (as always) you enormofuck.