Look at this face, look close. You always hear about these types, do you not. About the types who just nobody expected to lash out. This face belongs to one of them. It is my face. No, I do not mean to rampage. There was a time when I had these thoughts, but I would rather fix myself these days.
I did this photo for a professional website of a few acquaintances and me. Another acquaintance told me that the picture looked by far the most professional of all of them. Likable and welcoming.
What a good little corporate monkey I would have made. I was so fucking suited for it.
I even created a version of the picture with a rounded shape, for the site:
You know, to make it all seem modern and kinda nifty. Swift, elegant, modern, with animated and eased transitions and little wiggling icons when you move the mouse over it.
Yeah, we just all fucking fit so well into the layout. And all it needs to make us look agreeable and ‘normal’ is a black & white filter and a rounded shape. Fucking ridiculous.
Yeah, and the smile, of course.
I am good at smiling. I see the fake smilers from a mile away and always despise them because I know I can do it better.
I relax the muscles around my eyes so that people are not possibly afraid of any tension in my eyebrows. That would make me not nice, not sympathetic, not agreeable.
People say it is cute. I hate it. It is degrading. It makes me want to murder. A voice in my head tells me that these people will only ever accept me if I put up the stupid smile so that they can call me cute.
My mother said it. I invented and perfected it for her. I have a good version of puppy eyes, too.
Sometimes my mother used it on me. It was horrendous. She was not good at it. I felt that she was mocking me and I despised her deeply for it. Bitch, this is my act. My domain. You are supposed to be the manipulated one, me the manipulator.
Fuck you all.
I am not cute. I fantasize about raping girls. I fantasize about beating up or at least fight everybody I meet. I run around with a deep rage. The better parts of me want to , build my own kingdom and lead a family of loyal followers and have a harem.
I am not cute. I have a penis. This penis is there to penetrate mouths, vaginas and assholes and enjoy the semiviolent pleasures of life.
I am not cute. I am an outcast who put up a pretense for all his life, whom even his father did not want. I ended up insulting everybody who was ever my friend, because I never was their friend; I merely pretended, because I desperately wanted friends.
I am not cute.. In my first year at school, I rammed a pencil into another kid’s head. The thought soothes me, as it is one of the rare moments in my life when I felt in control and did not let people walk all over me.
I like to be ugly and .
I am not cute, fuckers. I dare you to call me cute.
Oh, but is it not cute how I am emoting right now? Well, fuck you. Unless you are significantly bigger or stronger than me, let’s see how cute you will find my fist in your face.
No, I am not cute. Sorry, mother, I thought I could be the cute boy you needed. I thought I was good at it, but look at me. I never managed to pull through. I could not contain my rage and eventually lashed out. Iand . And when I could not do that anymore, well, I spent my days jerking off to porn and eating myself happy.
I am sorry for my rage. I know it should not be there. The son you needed, he would not have that rage. He would be able to control it, mold it into love for you and stoically give it to you, because you were and needed the help.
I am sorry, mother. I pretended to be fight and the world. That kid wanted to be loved, but you could only love a cute kid, so I became that. Of course I felt like a for betraying you like that, but at least I got something out of it.you needed, pretended in order to get your affection. I pretended to be able to give something I could not. I am just an angry kid who wants to
Sorry world, for not being cute. For not being. I really wish I could be what you need me to be, because you are all such fucking victims who need to be taken care of.
But I am not up to the job.
I feelfor it. Or do I feel ? I am a and a traitor. I am not half as ‘good’, not even a tenth as ‘good’ as I said I was.
I am not cute.