Bite Me

It’s 5:52am as I’m writing this and I have no idea why I’m awake. I’ve got that groggy post-hangover feeling of over-exhaustion, I’m massively hankering for a cup of instant coffee and I badly need a shower. (It’s been over 2 days now, my personal hygiene really could be better). One of the reasons I cited recently for not being ready to have children. Speaking of which, there is no more effective form of contraception than that piercing perpetual shriek emitted from a small child’s mouth. Every time I go to slide my knickers off from now on I will channel that intolerable wail and hopefully it will evoke some self-restraint. Because the act of sex is special, it should occur between two people who love and respect each other and damn it, I thought I could get through the remainder of that sentence with a straight face, but to no avail. A sarcastic smirk is tugging at the corners of my lips as I silently mock particular people who uncontrollably spring to mind. Perhaps this is why I’m so disliked. My condescending sneer isn’t exactly a charming attribute, but I get far too much enjoyment out of it to ever cut down.
Yes, you’ll probably be surprised to learn that I am aware of my unpopularity and yet I continue to behave like a cunt. Which shouldn’t come as much of a surprise to you really. If I can’t be bothered to shower regularly, pretending to care about your banal conversation isn’t likely. ‘Let’s pretend’, was probably my most overused phrase as a child, it was my favourite game because pretending is so much easier than real life. As liking is easier than disliking. You don’t need a reason or an informed opinion to like something.
This is why disliking is so much more honest than liking. And while I don’t enjoy peoples dislike of me, I at least respect it. None of my friends first impressions of me are particularly favourable. In fact, most of them couldn’t stand me. (Maybe they still hold their original views and the friendship has been an elaborate ruse and will culminate in some kind of ritualistic wickerman-esque public burning). If that is the case they certainly won’t be short of helpful volunteers. And after my death, (or execution depending on how you look at it), if I had to choose between being lovingly thought of but eventually forgotten or hatefully remembered, I know what I’d choose. Because as an eloquent gay man once put it, “the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.”