Previously: Your endorsement on LinkedIn means nothing to me.
When I saw the little red notification this morning, my heart both sank and hissed in delight within me. How he has sunk, I thought to myself, and I was not at all wrong. You abject, you pathetic, you craven child, to come crawling to me, begging me to approve of whatever vile little endeavor you have cobbled together to convince yourself that you exist. How like you, at this late point, to suggest to me that perhaps I like your page on Facebook or congratulate you on LinkedIn or join you in welcoming the latest addition to your team when you know perfectly well that I have deliberately withheld my approval from you, that I ride upon a seething ocean of contempt for your every wasted effort. Do not think for a moment that I enjoy watching you grovel and flail in a desperate attempt to scratch out some sort of reputation for yourself; your suffering is a waste of time and a bore. I would ruin the earth and every living thing therein before I lifted the slightest finger to aid your happiness. (I’d be happy to like your page on Facebook! How’s the funding coming along? When’s the tour?)
I would wish you out of existence, could I be bothered to wish anything about you at all. You vapid, ghastly, grinning scarecrow of a fraud. Everything you believe about yourself when you wake up flushed and horrified in the middle of the night, gasping and afraid, is perfectly true. Everyone shares your self-loathing, you useless assortment of skin some wretched child has scrawled a face on. How dare you invite me to share in your joy, when the thought of you experiencing even a moment of satisfaction makes me want to slit open my forearms and replace every ounce of my living blood with hot black tar ’til I burn up from the inside out, leaving only the charred and hollow suggestion of a heart. If I believed for even one second that you considered me a peer and an equal whose approbation you could regularly seek out I would drown the entire world just to close your eyes and throat. I want to vomit the entirety of my spleen into your lungs, you bloated, walking tragedy. (Congratulations on your exciting new career move! So excited for you.)
It is a moral outrage on the scale of the Hindenburg and a goddamned crime that I am not flanked at all times by flaming handmaidens like a god, or at the very least murdered immediately. How I shall delight in your slow and helpless slide into inconsequentiality. How I shall laugh, and clap, and hold out my hands for more, you Christing squeal of an abomination. Your persistent belief in your own significance is an insult both to me and the ideal concept of truth, and I will drive myself to rack and ruin destroying you in my mind, you petulant wash-rag, you human blood-clot, you unloveable stale crumpet, you infantile pile of drunkenness and hair loss. I will build a throne a mile high upon your dirt-stuffed corpse. I will never congratulate you, never share in your joy, never join you in welcoming anything, never allow myself even a moment of sympathy for your putrid, sprawling waste of an existence, never stop to sleep or eat or breathe anything that is not a thick and congealed miasma of contempt for you. (Congratulations.)
