Getaway

Burlap Sack: I hate myself

No one hates me as much as I hate myself.

You don’t even need to meet me to know that I suck, and that I suck a lot. Just one glance at my poorly dressed self will give you enough insight into my fucked up little bitch capabilities. Sure, I could enlist the help of several ex-girlfriends, co-workers, past friends, family members, police men, service workers, current friends, friend’s parents, political officials, zookeepers, small children, professors, classmates, and bus drivers to tell you I’m a piece of shit, but I feel like it’s much more organic if it comes the source.

I’m always late to things and I never have a good reason why. Not even by a little bit either, I’m talking hours here. Is the terrible feeling of uselessness going to make me be on time? No bitch.

When I do show up to things I’m usually a massive nuisance.  You want to get work done? Too bad, I’m going to talk about how an ugly pigeon’s face fucked me up to the point of tears this morning.

Perhaps the worst thing about my garbage-bag quality personality is my pretentiousness. If you haven’t heard the new José González single and noticed the exact type of nylon strings he uses to serenade your ungrateful ears, you’re in deep shit with me. If you don’t solely drink beer that was brewed two cups at a time by Belgium monks 12 kilometers underground, I don’t even want to talk to you.

I would write more but I have an incredibly short attention span. Anyways, if you happen to see me in SUB just throw hot water at me or something. I probably deserve it.

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