I Really Fucking Despise You

I Really Fucking Despise You

Posted on April 1, 2021 at 4:57 pm by Dan Ryan

If there was a God, I would spit in his face for subjecting me to this. If there was a devil, I would sell my soul to make it end. If there was something higher that controlled our fucking fates, I would tell it to take my fate and shove it up its fucking ass. Shove it hard and far, you motherfucker.

Please end.

Please end.

Please end.

I feel like getting married, or committing a crime, or subscribing to Mad Magazine. Something desperate, you know.

They must take me for a fool, or even worse, a lunatic. And no wonder, because I’m so intensely conscious of my misfortune and my misery is so overwhelming that I am powerless to resist it and am being turned into stone, devoid of all knowledge or feeling.

She spoke to me yesterday.

Even though I am acutely aware of what people in my life have described as hallucinations or delusions, still I see her there. I walk into her room and she’s there, sitting, doodling, brooding.

Sometimes she speaks softly, sweetly.

But not yesterday.

Yesterday she was cold, unapproving, unimpressed. She was angry, and she made it clear in no uncertain terms that my failures have been unacceptable.

Re-find yourself, she said, or I’ll be forced to take control.

This is your last chance.

Maybe it’s not true, what Phyllis said.

Maybe each human being lives in a unique world, a private world different from those inhabited and experienced by all other humans. If reality differs from person to person, can we speak of reality singular, or shouldn’t we really be talking about plurality? And if there are plural realities, are some more true, more real than others?

I see her. She is sitting there as clear as day. This doesn’t feel like a dream. It feels true.

Maybe it’s as real as anyone else’s world. Maybe you cannot say that you are in touch with reality and I am not, but should instead say, my reality is so different from yours that I can’t explain mine to you, not sufficiently, and you can’t explain yours to me. The problem, then, is that if subjective worlds are experienced too differently, there occurs a breakdown in communication – and there is where the real illness lies.

Don’t you see? The catastrophe is me. My very existence is an affront to everything that is natural and good.

It is true that I am a person with black pockets of evil and hatred in my heart. There are underground places inside of me which have bubbled to the surface, and I don’t think it possible to turn back now. If there is some healing to be done in this, it has become alien to me.

I am now more tortured than I have ever been, and it has been building to this for some time.

For torture to be effective, the pain has to be spread out; it has to come at regular intervals, with no end in sight. The water falls, drop after drop after drop, like the second hand of a watch, carving up time. The shock of each individual drop is insignificant, but the sensation is impossible to ignore. At first, one might manage to think about other things, but after five hours, after ten hours, it becomes unendurable. The repeated stimulation excites the nerves to a point where they literally explode, and every sensation in the body is absorbed into that one spot on the forehead — indeed, you come to feel that you are nothing but a forehead, into which a fine needle is being forced millimeter by millimeter. You can’t sleep or even speak, hypnotized by a suffering that is greater than any mere pain. In general, the victim goes mad before a single day has passed. And yet, I’ve been enduring it my entire life.

I’ve lost, but I don’t intend to lose any longer.

I’ll do whatever I must to make sure it doesn’t happen again.

I’m sorry, Brian.

Some people are in such utter darkness that they will burn you just to see a light. Try not to take it personally.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You know, sometimes things just don’t go your way.

You put in years of hard work, you train, you sharpen your skills against the best our business has to offer. You do all the promotional work, you do every single thing asked of you, no matter how many times you get skipped over, and you continue to show up for work every week, unappreciated, disrespected, and insulted.

Oh, I’m not talking about me.

I’m talking about you, Bri.

You’re a mainstay here, a household name, one of the pillars of the High Octane legacy, for whatever reason, and yet here you are, still, used as cannon fodder for someone who just wants to burn the world down right now.

Because that’s where I am.

I find myself arguably the second-best wrestler in the entire world.

Not the first.

The second best.

Second best.

Two absolutely disgusting fucking words that make me sick to my stomach, and yet, until I can prove otherwise, that is my ceiling here, to continually win every war but the big one – the one that would allow me to call myself the best in the world again. It’s a form of purgatory, you see, because defeating the rest of you is boring, and fighting my friend is frustrating and unfulfilling, and not just because he’s proving impossible for me to beat, but also because I don’t want to fight my friends. I’ve been forced to do that for almost a year now, and I’m sick of it.

I’m sick of it, so instead of proclaiming that I’m coming for Mike and his HOFC championship, I’m turning my attention elsewhere, first to you, and next to the cast of mediocre ‘talents’ in the latest version of the Best Alliance. Seeing Jatt Starr with two championships around his waist is like waking up one day and finding out the New York Jets are both the Super Bowl champions and somehow, the NBA champions. It makes no fucking sense, and it should outrage anyone who actually gives a shit about those championships. So I guess Mike was right about that much. Because I’m tired of Lee Best interfering in every single main event I get booked in – booked in by him no less – I’m tired of coming this close only to have him roll out to the ring like a handicapped Lex Luthor and distract me with some random reference to my past, or toss my opponent a weapon to use on me. Five times I’ve had a shot at the HOW World Championship ruined by some sort of Lee Best nonsense.

And now what?

You get what you all fucking deserve.

Cancer Jiles is the World Champion.

A guy who I’ve beaten decisively twice in the last six months.

TWICE.

The World…. Champion.

The World, LSD, and World Tag Team championships are held by men I can wipe the floor with on a normal day, men who I could cripple on my best day. It’s the least exciting roster of champions I’ve seen in any company in a long ass time, and yet that’s the lot that Lee is hitching his wagon to.

How does that strike you, Brian?

You’ve been here for fucking ever. Half the championships in this company are held by men who think being clever means coming up with a new pussy joke. How does that make you feel? Because it makes me want to rip them to shreds and break every bone in their bodies. There’s a time and place for mediocrity. Everyone can’t be a winner, but when mediocrity is placed on a pedestal like a winner, it’s an insult to the craft. Snicker if you want.

I have a newfound sense of aggression welling up inside me, and you’re gonna be the unfortunate target of that aggression this week.

A psychiatrist once told me that I have an overactive anger switch, but the truth is, people just keep pissing me off. Right now, your face is pissing me off, but you could be anyone, truth be told. No one would, no one could make me feel any different in this moment.

So I watched your match, and I’m sure you feel pretty mistreated right now. Beat down, kicked, pushed around. It’s a bitch, ain’t it?

There is nothing worse than having an enemy who is a total loser. It’s incredibly frustrating when seeking revenge against one because you come to the realization that there is really nothing you can do to make the person’s life worse than it already is. They have nothing to take, there is no way to screw them over. It’s maddening.

I want to end who you are right now. I want you to shut up. I want you to never be able to open your eyes and see the sun, or feel a cool breeze or taste delicious food. I want you dead, Brian Hollywood. It’s as blunt and honest and simple as that. I want all of you dead. There’s a giant hole inside of me that I haven’t been able to fill, and it enrages me to know that it will probably never happen. Everything I do will be in pursuit of that goal. You, and everyone else around here, are now in a position where you have to try to prevent me from choking the life out of you and tossing you in a river. Just winning is not enough. Just existing, not enough.

I don’t want to burn HOW to the ground — just the people in it.

Starting with you.

I know what’s coming. I expect you’ve got a solid five to ten killer ‘big kid on the playground but really he’s only big because he’s so fat’ insults lined up to try to bully me with. That’s your style. Your one-note, unimaginative style. Go ahead and launch yourself at me, and I’ll let you take your shot. It will be weak like you are. Like everyone who is like you really are, insecure idiots who try to make themselves feel better. The only thing that could justify your continuing existence on the planet would be if you started breathing carbon dioxide and exhaling oxygen.

Plants are so much more bearable to be around than you are.

Well, that’s all the time we have, Brian.

I have a couple more words I could share, but I doubt you know the definitions, so…

I’m gonna go.

Can’t wait to see ya at the arena. This match will be very cathartic… for me.