Plagiarized feelings, stolen words

I’m sick of these sons of bitches who moan and groan about how they work so hard for their fucking families. They’re full of shit, every fucking one of them. Only the artist works truly for his loved ones and descendents alone. And that is because they are the only ones who get to see the fucking paycheck. Artists are not paid hourly. They are not paid weekly. They are not paid monthly. They are not paid annually. They are paid posthumously. In life, there is nothing: not even decent down-payment, not even the token gesture of a ten-percent lagniappe.

So next time you’re going to show me a picture of your ugly fucking wife, to prove me you are not trying to fuck me anymore, and of your kids who have the misfortune of looking just like you, and you are about to tell me how hard you work for them, just do me a favor: stick it up your fucking ass. The same goes for that old bag cocksocker mother you talk about taking care of. Shit, when she croaks there’ll probably even be a payday in that for you. Fuck you people with your paid vacations and your pensions and your rich mommies and daddies and your bullshit about how hard you work and how much you sacrifice. The only worthy sacrifice you can make is to kill yourself. I hate every one of you motherfuckers who ever inherited a dime, or who stands to inherit a dime. You’re the scum of earth, because you can’t make your own way on it. Even if you pretend to make your own way, you’ve got that net under you. You’re dilettantes of real life.

Yet only the very arrogant and the very foolish say or believe that they work for themselves.

It feels good to say these things.




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