To every Self-Elected-Jesus

This is a post about something that’s been grating my lady parts for most of the year now, so it’s time I vent about it.

People have developed this retarded idea that they all have a say in how I live. Where it’s coming from is beyond me and all my imagination. I’ve always had those people who cared for my general well-being more than most. This is not about them. You will note how I said those people “cared”. What the rest of you don’t seem to understand is that there’s a specific difference between caring and pushing your opinions in my face.

If I have put you through annoying phone-calls from my mom and have maybe cut your night short because you’ve had to look after me, there’s no need for you to read this. But there is this group of irrelevant annoyances who have deluded themselves into thinking that they hold some sort of high rank in my life. A rank so high that they should send me long-as-the-ocean-is-vast footnotes on how I am living wrong. This is for you bastards.

Firstly, you don’t know me. Yes we’ve hung out a couple of times with a couple of mutual friends. Yes I have you on Facebook. Yes I followed you back on Twitter. Yes I tolerate your annoying as fuck comments on some of my statuses and pictures. Yes this, yes that, and yes to most things that would mistake you into thinking that I could value your general existence as a human being.

No, however, to the assumption that you have any right to contribute any kind of opinion to the way I choose to live. This is particularly aimed at all you pretentious tits who’ll hear about something I have done recently, giggle, and say ‘oh my gosh that’s so Lonie”. No, bitch, that’s not so Lonie, ‘cause you couldn’t tell what’s Lonie from a basket of peaches and a bathtub of rose petals. All of you walking around hearing all kinds of stories about me and deciding that you’re my designated motivational speakers and assorted shrinks can go and explore the edge of a bridge.

And then there is the second hybrid of cow dung. This is the spit-bubble-hanging-from-a-donkey’s-dick breed that assumes that I should explain myself to them. I just…I mean…where do I even begin with you? You met me at the beginning of this year, let’s say. My friends have maybe told you a few stories about how I was when I got to varsity. You’ve seen a few pictures and read a few thoughts I’ve shared. And now you have this warped idea that you deserve some kind of explanation from me regarding anything and everything I decide to do.

Not so. My mother can demand explanations from me. My aunt is sometimes entitled to some vague explanations from me. My sister and cousins can, not should, ask for explanations from me. Who, the fuck, are you? You, my fellow human being, are Mr(s) met-you-thrice-and-couldn’t-be-bothered-to-learn-your-name-the-first-two-times, is who you are. So you don’t have to know why I slept with so-and-so. You don’t need to know why I said this about that, or why I chose to go over that instead of look under this.

You not only do not, but also should not, be in my general space if I have so many problems that bother you ever so much. Leave. It’s that simple. I don’t come with a manual because most of the shit I do I can’t even explain to myself. This life thing is a learning experience and I’m doing it a hell of a lot better than you if you’ve made no mistakes in your life.

Yes I’m a fuck-up. Yes it takes me a while to acknowledge my mistakes. Yes it’s going to take me even longer to learn from them. What’s not going to help me is YOUR insignificant take on MY actions and how they could harm those around me. As far as I know, all of my friends are still alive and kicking. So fuck you very much, life’s extra. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just that pimple in life’s arse crack. I have no time or patience for your fuckery.