You're Making Me Hate You Read Online Free PDF Page A

Beach, from Cabo San Lucas to the French Quarter, all over America and beyond, the masses are frothing and scrambling from bar to bar, street to street, hovel to hovel, searching in earnest for the next buzz, the next free one. They all make it seem like real life is so bad that they can’t handle being sober to enjoy it, which is utter fucking drivel. But if eyewitness accounts are to be allowed into evidence, they don’t need alcohol to act the fool.
    Let’s start with this global “party scene.” Trust me: I see it all over the world. Most of the belligerence starts at night, and yet the seeds for this universal embarrassment are planted while the sun still blazes high above us. Apparently you don’t even have to have a
job
these days to be so stressed and tested you need to go out and blow your mind on bootleg gingers and high shines. I could understand this shit more if it were just nine-to-fivers embalming themselves. Even college kids could get a pass—that’s a lot of pressure for a mind that hasn’t sufficiently finished developing. But from my standpoint many of those who butcher the conventions of public decency are young, lazy layabouts. They do fuck all in the a.m. but sleep. The p.m. is reserved for finding out what they’ll be up to while they’re missing late-night television. I know what I’m talking about: I used to be one of those people … when I was nineteen. Being young was kind of a requirement for this oafish bollocks. Nowadays, well, let’s just say it wouldn’t be a shock to come across a coven of bastards and bitches, all of differing ages, trying desperately to do beer bong hits together on a Wednesday night whilst hanging out of a third-story balcony at a Best Western hotel. I suppose if you’re going to set an example, you better be able to walk the walk. About an hour later, however, they’re all out on the streets,
wasted
. That’s just what we need right now. Oh, wait—actually no, it’s in fact the exact opposite.
    If you don’t spend as much time as I do strolling the streets of various metropolitan byways inadvertently engaged in anthropological research, just switch on your TV sets—if you can stomach it. Every network on the dial or dish has a variety of programs all showing the glamour and glut of so-called reality shows, the worst idea in the history of programming since Geraldo went digging for Al Capone’s recyclables. All of these shows have several things in common: the “cast” are dicks, they spend all day bitching at or about each other, and at night they just
have
to blow off some steam, what with all the energy they spent doing
nothing
all day, unless you count the aforementioned high-speed bitch attacks. So these same cunt-face people load up on chemicals and cocktails, only to have the inevitable clash of hairy cat shit right before the producers cut to commercial. It’s a gross mess devoid of class, morality, or even a working vocabulary because half the time they’re speaking in beeps. I didn’t know high-pitched squeals were in the English language. Well, it’s either that or these fuckwads use so many curse words it’s amazing they got on the telly in the first place. But people around the world are mesmerized by this trash, and by calling it “reality TV,” they believe this is how everyone lives, so they decide to do so in turn. Can I get a “hell yeah” for the human race? Before you go hip-hip-hooraying, though, remember that this shit makes me want to stab squirrels in their cute little innocent faces with a ballpoint pen.
    It’s no wonder we’re all a mess in public, then. All we see and hear is crap, so we have to be crappy to blend in. That’s the cattle mentality: it’s always easier to follow the herd than it is to go find better cud somewhere else on your own. The blamealso goes to the producers of this calamitous form of entertainment. They make sure that all the hands involved on the screen are going to be venomous