Killer Penguin

Life is utterly miserable because of you personallyIssues of injustice are passe: you complain of compassion fatigue. When in your car, you curse the traffic. A sacrifice for you is not buying what you know is tainted. A luxury is buying it anyway. If your hypocrisy is illuminated you smirkingly quip lighten up. Your desires are steeped in boredom: neophilia overrides ever appreciating what you might know well. Thinking, for you, is something that one can do too much of - it's the only thing that you do in moderation. When you choose to perform the indefensible, you moan that you were tired if there is no one else to blame. Howling in a storm of self-constructed anguish, the worst of your traumas would always centre upon yourself. Events of importance leave you cold whilst you remain obsessed with the oft repeated minutiae of your trivial existence. You effetely surrender to a reliance on hope so as to hobble any active involvements, just as you satisfy yourself with demonstrations of potential: validation through action would be too radical and dangerous. The course of your life has no qualitative difference to that of any other animal, save for the quirk that you have the cleverness to make pseudo conscious noises about your predicament. It has been a studied effort for you to take the cultures available and banalise them into the specious rhetoric that glosses the veneer of you comfort seeking. Happiness becomes the catch-all legitimizer for any personal indulgence. Compassion is something that you might theoretically advocate but in practice it's fuck-thy-neighbour-for-fear-that-they-fuck-thee. Puerile minds would sneer at the semblances of reason that are contorted to be your considered approach. You, of all, have options to change and yet all you do is consolidate you privileges; in the face of difficulty you use these privileges to evade any cause. Conformism and mediocrity are the comforting norms: any deviation is couched in bleated excuses of why you had no choice. You seek to sustain the unsustainable by grouping with the equally flip-minded and then insisting that your collectively held lies define some universal truths - with the remarkable coincidence that you emerge at the centre of things. Paralysis is what you aspire to if you thought your motives through. The complete form of this would be death. Rarely do questions fill your mind since you prefer to just preen your complacency with a mass of facile truisms. Accept it, the future cannot lie with your kind. Then spend the rest of your life lying to yourself about knowing this. Forever defensive, you misconstrue openness for weakness and leap to exploit any trusting offer. For fear of thinking you hide behind tradition. For fear of commitment you utter only platitudes. For fear of feeling, you wallow in sentimentality. For fear of affirmation, you lean on cynicism. Expedience becomes the term for doing now what seems most personally profitable. Planning is the cunning to ensure that this remains so. When things are well things are as they should be; when something does not suit you it becomes a monstrous injustice: that the two are different sides of the same thing is carefully elided. Your wants overwhelm others' needs. The inequities are gloated upon with the teleological argument that they demonstrate the natural order of things. Ordure more like. Give something more than detritus back you bastard.