I hate you. Please love me.

For as far back as I can remember, I have always had the undying need to have people like me. At all times. I’m not one of those that doesn’t care about people’s opinions – I do care. It’s very important to me that people like me. I mean, why wouldn’t they? I’m so amazing. Why do these morons not adore me at all times, I wonder to myself sometimes. As far as I’m concerned, it is imperative that I am loved and admired. Twenty-four seven.

This becomes a bit of a problem, because the other half of that equation is that I’m a sociopath, in most senses of the word. I hate most people, I have no morality, I have practically no conscience, am self-centered, irresponsible, immature and I constantly violate other people’s feelings and opinions with utter disregard. Look, I’m not proud of any of this; I’m just stating a fact. I’ve seen a few doctors and they tell me it’s called Antisocial Personality Disorder and it comes from various factors that could have occurred during childhood, but I’m not going to get into any of that. The bottom line is, recovery from such a state is not really possible – my status as a sociopath is permanent.

You see where I’m going with this?

I don’t like people. But they must, at all times, like me. I have no sense of responsibility when it comes to their feelings, but I get deeply offended when someone disregards whatever remnants of feelings I have remaining. Vicious circle and all. Of all the things that can leave you depressed and feeling like a real piece of shit, getting someone you hate to like and accept you is definitely somewhere on top. Oh, and another thing. I also believe that most people are stupid, and that I am intellectually way above them. I laugh to myself when I see people trying to comprehend a problem step by step when I, genius that I am, figured it out and solved it in my mind. Three minutes ago. So, basically, most people are morons. Not all, but most.

At times, I set out to un-wrong my wrongs, to be a better man. Not because I want to be, but because I want people to like me enough, and then I can go back to being myself – a miserable mess of an asshole. I have to go out and prove to myself that I can do good deeds too. Like, the other day, I let a fat man cross the road…. Okay, that sounds mean, so I’ll explain. Most guys will understand this. You know when you’re driving in a high traffic area where your speed needs to be picked up and slowed down over and over again. And, you know, when people are trying to cross the road through all that commotion. You know how you let the pretty girls cross, but the moment it’s someone that doesn’t fit that description, you pretend like you haven’t seen them and keep on driving at a slow but still somewhat threatening speed? Like a not-so-great-looking girl, or a man that looks richer than you, or a fat, sweaty dude. Okay, maybe I’m more of a sociopath than I first thought. Anyways, I let the dude cross the road, and nothing happened. He didn’t thank me, he didn’t raise his arm, no eye contact – the bastard didn’t even acknowledge me! I should’ve run him over, but he’d gone past.

Fucker.

Why don’t these stupid people like me? I’m going out of my way for them. This woman stepped into the elevator with me and she had a little kid with her. This little kid was picking his nose and staring at me. His mum told him to get his fingers out of his nose, and then she just gave me this look that said “Kids, huh?” and I wanted to give her a look that says “Get his finger out of his freaking nose and tell him to stop staring at me. And spank him if he doesn’t listen, bitch!” but I didn’t and just smiled back. See, good deed!

And then, just yesterday, this chick at the office had serious BO. And I just kept quiet. If you can’t say anything nice about someone, say nothing at all. And that’s what I did. Guys having BO is bad enough, but society has always accepted that. Man toils and labors, therefore he sweats, therefore he gives off an odor. It’s the scent of hard work. But chicks? At 10am in the morning? Seriously, bitch. S-H-O-W-E-R. Look it up. And another thing. Is it Bring-Your-PMS-To-Work Day already? Because I must’ve missed the memo.

I’m going to post this on Facebook. Please click “Like”. No, seriously.