To Every Girl That’s Ever Called Me Complicated
I feel like I need to explain. See I don’t quite know what constitutes a fair explanation of something that subjective, but I’ll give it a try. Let me start off with such verbose, I can hear the uniform sigh of humanity pandering me as it reads the words off this page. I’m just too much most of the time. I know I’m too much to tolerate, I really do. And I hate that word: tolerate. I hate it almost as much as I hate people who say you shouldn’t use the word hate. Yes, I hate things. It’s a strong word and I use it appropriately and efficiently. So please don’t come to me, armed with qualms of what I should refrain from saying, just because you lack the passion or free time to hate as strongly and coherently as I can.
There I go, off on a tangent. A few, but hopefully you’re not counting. Like I was saying, I’m too much for the average person pumped full of prolific quantities of serotonin and dopamine. Tolerating is just the poor man’s disdain. He can’t afford to ruin the status quo of his own falsehood reality. And no, its not to say that I’m this existential, complex being. Because I’m not. I don’t hold my complexities on a pedestal hoping to impress you into thinking I must fuck better than the guys you meet with an emotional depth proportional to the jean size you wish you could fit into but won’t admit. Though I probably could, but that’s a whole other rant. My complexities are in fact flagrant excuses for the disconnection I have to this world. I’m not proud of them and I don’t try to show them off. In fact, I’m not entirely sure I can control them.
So to summarize, you’re right, I am complicated. The same way the ocean and the sky are majestic. No shit, but has pointing that out ever simulated anything new for anyone? When you see me again, I’m sure you’ll take notice of all these peculiarities and you’ll see what I’m talking about. Which is a good thing, I guess. You’re now part of a select group of people that get to witness life unravel through the eyes of cynicism in retrograde. Yup, that’s me.