Your Suffering Pleases Me

Even if I don’t see the ones who’ve hurt me ever again in reality, I still see them in dreams. That’s how I know I’m truly in the right. My subconscious mind proves irrefutably that I was the victim and they were the abusers. I bear no buried guilt.

I do my best not to hold grudges, because it’s unattractive to women (no matter what they tell you). Despite this, I can think of at least one person whom I still keep tabs on from afar, not out of bonhomie or hope of future reconciliation, but because I want to know the location of the potter’s field into which his loathsome carcass will eventually be planted, so that I can spray piss and dance a merry jig upon his pauper’s grave.

Lest my rancor alarm you, dear reader, I remind you that this is a so-called person who emotionally and verbally abused me for almost a whole year, following the murder of two of my closest friends (and housemates), after I had mistakenly invited him to be a new roommate, while literally out of my mind with grief.

This is a so-called human being who lied about being chummy with my murdered friends to move into a house of which he eventually forced me out, after lying to the landlady. This is a piece of shit who lied to my murdered friends’ faces. Who lied to my murdered friend’s mother. About me, about her murdered son, about nearly anything you could name.

There’s even the possibility that he caused my friends’ deaths by setting them up. The black “gangstas” who were initially charged and convicted (and featured on the relevant episode of First 48, as far as I know, I haven’t watched it) all walked. My friends’ families never got justice, or even a clear picture of what transpired that night in March of 2015.

So fucking forgive me if I still hold a serious grudge against this anus-sucking quasi-human remora, to the extent that when I learn of his death, I will openly and ebulliently celebrate, alongside many others. Whenever he expires, hopefully of some slow and painful wasting disease while reclining in a backed-up sewer, he will do so having never known or deserved love. You should feel no more sympathy for this failure of a man than you would for your most recent bowel movement. I don’t do this kind of animosity lightly, which should clue you in as to the extent of what I endured from this monumental fuckhead.

How about this; whilst living in my house and unbeknownst to me, he was banned from a prominent local hippie land-trust, and recently I heard a rumor it was for rape. Yeah, now you hate his guts, right? (He also went on to get banned from Little 5 Pizza, as well as my favorite incense parlor. I reserve the epithet “white trash” for garbage from upstate New York like this, that emigrates south to be a despicable one-percenter. For real, fuck him and his whore mother if you can find her.)

The last so-called person I felt this kind of hatred towards I was jailed for literally beating with an aluminum baseball bat. Funny thing; he once took advantage of my (later murdered) best friend too. When the things I care about in life are abused I see blood red, and all I want to do is crush the abuser into dust. Fuck you if you spend your life casually abusing people. I pray to God you die alone and afraid, trembling in abject terror while encrusted in your own filth.

Get a load of this:

1. The Christmas before my friend was murdered, I gave him an Xbox 360 that I had repaired myself after it received the dreaded Red Ring of Death.
2. After my friend was murdered, I allowed “B.U.D.” to borrow the 360, making clear its sentimental importance, that I would eventually want it back, and that it shouldn’t be left on for long periods because it might re-fry.
3. “B.U.D.” left the 360 on for days, in summer, on the floor of his room surrounded by dog hair, and it re-fried while he was off raping or selling drugs to kids somewhere.
4. I was half-heartedly asked if I’d just repair it again, I tersely replied that maybe I’d get to it sometime, and he wrapped the cords around the console and tossed it atop the entertainment center, where it stayed for months until my 360 took a shit, and I set about repairing it again so I could play it.
5. “B.U.D.” called the cops and told them I stole his Xbox.

I had to file a temporary protective order on this psychopath, do you fucking understand me? The grey-haired cunt of a judge queefed “Why don’t you just LEAVE?” Oh, mea culpa, you bony old boy-fucker- it never dawned on me to just pack up everything I own and move out of my home of the last five years, where I resided with my best friend who was murdered within a three-minute distance.

Here’s the kicker. I was taught how to repair Xbox 360s, a marketable skill by the way, by another good friend who helped me out when I was at my lowest. One of the coolest, most talented guys I’ve ever known. Some months back he was stabbed to death in his apartment, by a monster who masqueraded as a friend.

The implication that my hatred is unfounded or frivolous is insulting. My hatred is hard-earned. Its power is so great that it cannot be destroyed, it can only be diverted, and I strive to do so with humor. I am nursing decades of hatred and grudges. If I didn’t control it, it would fucking eat me alive. Either I kill people in video games, or crack jokes. There is no other alternative.

Think about it. Think about the one thing you’re most pissed off about, in the entire world, right now. Say it out loud. Now imagine me telling you that thing is no big deal, calm down, I’ve got my own fucking problems.

How’s that feel?

Say whatever you like about “9/11” tomorrow. It’s a free country. Make all the jokes you want, that’s how intelligent humans deal with tragedy. But guess what.

I’m gonna say whatever I want in response, and you’re not gonna like it. Because 9/11 birthed in myself a venomous, white-hot grudge, which has smoldered for eighteen long years. You’ll get the full dose of my vitriol, and you’re gonna hate me for it, because you’ll know it’s genuine. You won’t even question my connection to the tragedy. You’ll never dare to bring it up again.

I saw the plane hit the second tower. I saw the towers fall. I shut my eyes, and I could see the thousands of people inside, their terrified faces, thousands of human lives pulverized into earth by literal tons of rubble. It was every bit as real as the live news footage, in an endless repeating loop. Forever. I resorted to hard substance abuse to make it go away.

Reflect upon this when you decide to hate someone you’ve never met, or if you foolishly seek to “ban hate”. True hatred has origin and purpose. It does not exist in an emotional vacuum. It is earned every bit as legitimately as love is, and as Robert Mitchum famously taught us, love and hate are hands on the same man.

I hate as hard as I love; diamond-hard. I’ve wasted enough of my life treating it like a problem. Problems are like people; they go away. If you think I’m a hateful person, congratulations. You live a good life. You can devote energy towards pretending to care about someone else’s problems. Don’t ever confuse that with virtue.

In the famous words of Yoda, before he was de-balled by Disney and Rian Johnson, “hate leads to suffering”.

Although, the first of the Four Noble Truths of Buddhism is “life is suffering”. It takes years of dedicated practice to even begin to understand these words. Anything worthwhile takes years of practice to understand.

Anything.

Just FYI.