You look down on yourself. You think you’re worthless. You have this need in your core to please others ‘cause that’s where you look for happiness. You blow your problems out of proportion. You dwell on your past and the mistakes you made. You couldn’t make yourself smile to save your life, but you get pissed at me because I find humor in things? I’ve learned to make myself laugh and you find me arrogant? I’m not ‘dark,’ I just see things you don’t. You think I have this vendetta against everyone, you would too if you noticed the pure ignorance I’m surrounded by. I’m not some monster that makes fun of everything. The razor hidden in your room, the bottle in a brown bag you sip outside, the cigarette in your pocket: that’s how YOU cope. You can’t handle anything without lighting up, cutting or getting drunk off your ass. I find a joke in everything. Humor. That’s my crutch. It doesn’t leave scars, make me write bullshit poetry about this mystique teenage girls have created, it won’t make me get in a wreck, and it doesn’t blacken my lungs. It gets me through everything that I have to put up with. There’s no rehab for it because it is it’s own rehab.
My sarcasm, offbeat humor and cynicism aren’t anywhere near as hurtful as what you do.
