Thanks for Nothing

I'm tired. I'm tired of the bullshit antics of popularity contests, of how even when you do well or put your all into something it doesn't mean shit because you aren't buddy-buddy with whoever happens to be running the show; that prick of a ringleader -- the high and mighty God from Mount Olympus, descended to let us lowly mortals realize how crappy we truly are. I should very well be comatose for all the hijinks I put up with on a day-to-day basis, about how it appears that for all my tenacity toward a goal and success I end up short-sticked. I pulled the short one, again, and again, and again, like it's some proverbial universal joke being played on me that I don't happen to be privy to.

Ha ha. Yeah, funny. Funny how it always seems I can't pull ahead when I'm clearly doing better. Funny how it always seems like, for all my worth, I'm dirt-poor. A bunch of rich-kids slumming around pretending that little old me is worth the time because they want to have a little fun. Oh, what's that? I really don't matter in the end because I'm not like the rest of you? I don't have class? Well, gee, sorry for not living up to your gloriously and righteously high standards. Maybe you misinterpreted exactly how good you are. What a crappy little shank to better judgement.

Politics. It's all shoddy little political games played by the shadow regime of the clique. I don't quite click into place in the clique. I have none there. I'm that extra piece in the puzzle that doesn't go anywhere. The floater. The random guy that shows up to the party uninvited because my invitation didn't happen to have been sent (because there wasn't one), yet everyone told me I should be there. I'm not wanted. I can see it, but at least let me have my glory moment for being top-dog at least once. Oh, wait, I can't have that because I don't seem to measure up to whatever prolific ideals you've got sprouting out the side of your head like a fungal growth. Thanks for nothing, jackass.