Are you kidding me? With all this sensitive dribble? Come on, nobody wants to hear it. Fucking pantywaist shit. Knock it off. They hate you for it.
Empathy, soul-searching, complaining, admitting to weakness - keep it to yourself. Nobody fucking cares. It has to stop. All it does is invite condescension and scorn, leaving you wide open to annihilation.
Everybody suffers, everybody keeps it to themselves. "How's it going?" "Great! How about you?" "Couldn't be better!" Bullshit. But it ain't wimpy. The facade is everything, baby - everything.
They want your blood, not your tears. So give it to them. Take all that internal bleeding and make it external - a fucking tsunami of fresh, hot blood, a geyser slamming them to the wall like water from a fire hose. Dripping from their faces, soaking their clothes, making them feel superior. Smiling as they lick their lips.
Take your useless sensitivity and bury it deep down inside of you. When it bubbles up, layer grotesque lies on top of it. Kill it, suffocate it, never let it see the light of day. Lie to yourself so you can lie to the world.
One day you will explode, and they will love that too. Ragged chunks of you strewn across the landscape - they win, you lose. But until that happens, fake it, baby - fake it. Everybody wants to see the swagger, even though they know you are full of shit. The swagger allows them to ignore your soul and treat you like a fraud, which is something they understand.
You are weak, and you feel weaker when you admit it, which sets the vultures to circling, so what's the fucking point? Hide it beneath a mountain of delusion.
There is a monster inside of you, a seething stew made up of anger and disappointment, hatred; bubbling up, boiling over. Let him out. He will kill, he will conquer. People will give you room. Which sets the table for revenge.
When someone foolishly exposes their vulnerability to you, you can strike them down. Punish them, humiliate them, hurt them. Make them pay for their humanity.
It's the only way.
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