You're Making Me Hate You Read Online Free PDF

harpies, then they throw a bunch of “story arcs” their way in hopes that it will stir up the kind of controversy the networks are looking for. It is a maddeningly rich racket that they are milking at every nipple. Shore to shore, Jersey or Geordie, the cameras are getting close-ups on all the festering boils that the gene pool has to offer, and the entranced huddled masses are following suit. This is one of the reasons why I believe public intoxication, drunk driving, arrest rates, and subsequent related deaths are at a twenty-year high all over the planet. What really makes me angry on a nuclear level is that no one is doing anything about it.
    But let’s get back to my original posit: Are any of you privy to how dumb you all look? First of all, you all dress the same. The guys all look like they bought the same shitty button-up shirts at the same strip mall, along with the brand-name pants with shiny shit on the ass. Good call, guys: you look like rapists. The sad thing is you probably are, convicted or not. You are one roofie away from your own personal pink card and having to legally live a certain distance away from schools and nurseries. We shouldn’t forget the hair gel and the
constant
sweating. If nervous porcupines could stand and walk upright, they would all look like the men of the world. Between the race to see how many shots you can do in sixty minutes and the high fives, chest bumps, and screaming in each other’s faces like you just scored a touchdown, I’m amazed we’ve been able to propagate humanity at all. It’s a fucking wonder women consider having sex with any of us. Oh, that’s right—women are just as bad.
    Ninety-eight percent of you girls wear shoes you can’t walk in, clothes that don’t fit, and dresses or skirts that don’t cover your bulbous asses. You scream and giggle at each other like you’rein third grade while casting a wary eye about for “bitches” that might encroach on your territory. When you feel sufficiently safe, you stand in a circle and do shots off of each other’s tits. Then you complain when the men in the vicinity start treating you like hookers, even as you’re being dragged to the bathroom for a quick blowjob. All of this culminates in a sad, drunken walk to a car or a cab, whether you’re going home or to some guy’s house, ending with you falling over in your stupid shoes, dress hiked up, ill-fitting panties hanging out, and a depressing video on YouTube in which you try in pure inebriation to get back up, looking like a turtle in drag that unfortunately ended up on its shell. I watch all those videos, and they are all fucking hilarious. Then I find myself wanting to slit my wrists because of how painfully sad they all are. Is this where we are? Is this what we’re left with? We’re all coming off as pretty petty and pathetic, and the brutal facts point out that the evidence supports this theory wholeheartedly.
    It doesn’t really help our cause that there are giant constructs designed to lure the platypuses to the fuckfest. Sodom and Gomorrah had nothing on the cities drawing the diseased to their bosoms: Vegas, LA, South Padre, South Beach, New Orleans, Austin … America may not have the patent on the urban need to pub crawl, but they have definitely upped the ante in a lot of ways. It’s the red, white, and blue way: take something that may have been designed for joy and pleasure, inject it with steroids and bacon grease, throw a grenade in it, and build a giant adult theme park as a beacon for the soiled, charging way too much as they make us pay with something other than money. Sometimes it just really sucks to be American, especially when I know just how much potential this country has for greatness and acceptance. But I don’t dwell; I just make voodoo dolls. Someday soon those things are going to work.
    As always, I digress …
    If only the facsimile of ridicule was just relegated to the nightlife, I wouldn’t be going off on this