these fucktards made my day!

It’s good to be in the company of friends who don’t regard me as a museum oddity. Friends who can read through the massive fortress I have erected to shield my feebleness; friends who offer me a puff of their Dunhill cigarettes and encourage me, a non-smoker, to go on and try it like I were some high school kid; friends who would offer to give me a wet smooch, tongue and all, whenever I feel I’ve been shortchanged by love; friends who would listen to and argue with me at Starbucks, oftentimes impaling me with their scathing diatribes for fucking up my own life; friends who strive to see things through my eyes without necessarily conceding; friends who don’t look at me like I was a talking specimen of alien life forms from Pluto; friends who do not lick my ass now and bugger it with a chainsaw the next moment; friends who do not go around announcing to the whole world how dirty my undies are.

Oh yes, they do exist. Through billows of cigarette smoke, they give you their smirks and smiles and dirty fingers. Over tall glasses of Frapuccino, they slap you awake with crisp curses, obscenities, and blasphemies so hard that the customers on the other table think you’re a bunch of Satanists out on a holiday. Whenever you’re feeling blue, they would not even try to comfort you. They’d tear and mangle and desecrate your very soul while trying to decipher your psyche. And then, when you’re already dismembered and bleeding, they would knock you down with their own take on your issues and suddenly you feel like a lame fucktard for having felt depressed in the first place and then you’d just laugh your ass off and then put your ass back in place and laugh it off again and slap it back in place ad infinitum.

After hanging out with them last night, I felt I could breathe again.