Suck My Dick, You Miserable Shits: A Love Poem

Here's something I don't quite understand:

I've looked back at several of my previous posts. All the way back to the start of this useless blog. Hell, all the way back to the beginning of the useless blog before this one, even. And do you know what I discovered?

Aside from a select smattering of "From the Vault" and similar posts, I have been trying to please you, the humble reader.

I saw this and I finally wondered, "Why do I do it?" It's not like I get payed for this shit, so it's not like I need a way to improve traffic. I certainly don't do this because I need the validation of traffic and page views. I like (read: fucking love) the attention I get, what little I can glean from you miserly shits and your non-comment-leaving ways, but that still isn't really the reason I wanted to please you, the blog-reading public. I thought long and hard on this subject, and I came to a simple conclusion. Why do I aim to please you?

I have no idea.

Failing to answer this simple question, I tried another one. A similar question, to be sure, but different enough that I believed I could answer it. "Why should I do it?" This question was easy to answer. I shouldn't.

You see, I didn't start blogging for attention. I did it because I love the sound of my own voice, but talking to myself in public raises some eyebrows, so I had to settle for loving the words I write. I love nothing more than thinking up clever (or at least what I deemed to be clever at the time) ways of saying the things that pop into my head. Often, I also used to find it amusing to say things that piss people off for the simple pleasure of pissing them off. Hell, I still find that amusing. Quadriplegics are just lazy. Breast cancer is for whiners. Glen Beck loves wart-ridden, unwashed horse-cock. 

A while back, I asked for opinions on what I should write about. I got one response, from my uncle. I'm not really sure what I expected, but it still sorta pissed me off. So fuck you, loyal shit-eating readers. But I love you. No, really. I can't write what I know won't be read, so if you weren't here, I wouldn't be able to write. And sometimes, I have to write. It's what I do. It's really my only talent. If I couldn't write, I'd just be another middle-class white kid in a community college, impotently whining to my friends and family about things that annoy me. I would surely sink into anonymity and lead a perfectly average, disappointingly pedestrian, depressingly unimpressive life. I still probably will. Lucky for me, I do possess an above average ability to combine words into sentences that don't grate on the nerves like seeing a cat's asshole first thing in the morning. So lucky you, now I get to impotently whine to total strangers and internet people about things that annoy me. And I intend to do so.

So I've decided. Fuck you. All of you. Every last dog-fucking one of you. I am not here to amuse you, you are here to amuse me. You are here to listen to me piss and moan about whatever irritates my bowls at any particular moment, and you are here to like it. I am here to scream obscenities and petty insults, and you are here to lavish me with praise for my witty and intelligent scripture, even when it isn't witty and intelligent. Especially when it isn't witty and intelligent. If you disagree with me, than you can fuck off and die, you vile penguin-fondling miscreant. 

This is the end of "Hey guys, look at what I wrote! I drew a picture in paint! Aren't I fucking ZANY AND WILD! PLEASE LOVE ME!" I'm done with that. I don't know how often I'll update this blog, but I don't answer to you. If you think I've become a self-absorbed, arrogant, foul-mouthed and strikingly handsome college student, then you're wrong. I've always been this way, but now I don't give a flying fuck what you think of me. I'm here because I like to write, and I'm sick of trying to make nicey-nice and write what I think other people want to read. I've decided to write for me, not anyone else, as pathetic as that sounds. 

Yours in spite,

Scooter