Role Models For A Young Sociopath

It's February. Everybody's in love.

Every time I leave the house, I see people holding hands and laughing at each other's cute little jokes and skipping stones and eating ice cream off each other's spoons and buying matching handguns with "his" and "hers" engraved on the trigger guards. All the delightful lovers like to pollute my Facebook feed with their heartfelt affirmations of undying adoration, and it's just so cute it makes me want to slit my fucking wrists. XOXO Go Fuck Yourself.

I've grown so embittered in my advanced age that I have developed an intolerance for these displays of affection. I don't care if you young lovers like to spend hours staring into each other's eyes while you listen to Marvin Gaye's greatest hits in a romantic candle-lit environment while you feed each other chocolate-covered strawberries and sigh contentedly. I just don't want to know about it.

I'm not the type of person who wants everyone to be as miserable as myself, don't get me wrong. I'm not pining for the one who got away, and I'm not simmering with rage because some harpy tore out my heart. I'm actually a pretty happy person, believe it or not. Okay, that's not true. We all know that's a lie. I could barely type that sentence out, my hands were shaking so terribly. But I don't wish my misery on others. Honestly, I don't. Be happy. Good for you. Just leave me out of it.

Why does everybody need to know how much you love your partner? Why do I have to be assaulted with your saccharine-drenched exaltations of true and unconditional love? I have no patience for schmaltz. That's why I've always despised Valentine's Day. It's fucking everywhere, man. Gigantic, brightly colored caricatures of the human heart are burned into my retinas. All of these romantic comedies can go straight to Hell.

And this baby talk shit? What unholy shit is this? You're hanging out with the boys, drinking some beers and watching the game, and your pal gets a phone call from his ball and chain, excuses himself and starts gibbering like a brain-damaged chimpanzee on helium into his phone. Is your girlfriend a teacup chihuahua? Then stop talking to them like they are.

Stop doing this! It's not healthy! Whatever happened to a simple "I love you" on your way out the door? When did things like tact and discretion become so passé? Take your wife out to dinner on Saturday night, but don't announce it to the whole world like anyone else gives a shit. And while I'm on the subject, stop taking photos of your fucking food and sharing it on Instagram and Twitter and Facebook. What the hell is wrong with you people?!

Eh... maybe I'm just an old-fashioned asshole trapped in a world that's moved on without me. Or maybe I'm an idealist. I like to go to this website and pretend I'm eradicating the entire human race in radioactive hellfire. It helps me relieve the stress, and it makes me happy. We have to enjoy the simple pleasures.

Anyway, who likes Leave It To Beaver? It's such a charming and optimistic television show, filled with joy and warmth and fucking lies.

It's also the subject of this, the 22nd installment of Lies My Podcast Told Me. Join us below as we take a stroll down the road to damnation, won't you?

Chapter 22: Fifty Shades Of Beaver



That's all I've got for now. Something new will eventually pop up on this lonely blog eventually. For now, I've got a date with some hard liquor.

TIME MARCHES ON!

Suicide my sexy thighs...