Secret Blog Moves Spineless America Closer to the Edge
How many of you have seen this
"PostSecrets" blog? Basically, the premise is that you do some artsy post card up with pictures of your dead relatives or you masturbating in a holy water dish and then send it in with your secret attached. I found the whole thing mildly amusing at first, as I thought it was a joke. But, now people are taking this website entirely too serious and are giving it way too much credibility. I could make an equally comparable website by people writing in talking about what famous president their turds look like.
The only reason to like this website, is the same reason you watch a car crash. You drive by and say to yourself, "Glad that isn't me." or even worse "I wish that was me." Hopefully for those of you reading these travesties of wasted attention, you have the balls to say what you want and not keep it a secret forever. Hopefully, you don't draw up a post card of a dog fucking Santa Clause and let the world know behind your gray shroud that you have always had a thing for this kind of fantasy. Hopefully, you have enough of a life not to guide your ship by someone else's anonymously lit star that holds with it nothing but empty empathy and pity.
The self-pity drivel that most people go through in a day is already infinitely written about throughout the blogosphere. The last thing I need is a condensed repository of sad bastard shit averting the attentions of gay men and fat secretaries from their daily workload. Somewhere my boss is not getting his phone messages because his secretary is on the phone to her friend in Boise cramming down a donut talking about the post from January 9th about the girl who couldn't stop cutting herself.
I've been getting a lot of flack about my hatred for this site. I don't understand why. It's all flacid bleeting by a society to ashamed of their own desires to even dream of pursuing anything more than an anonymous fucking post card. If you are too much of a cheesy sap to confront people or even your own life - you know what the last thing I want to do is; entertain myself with your cowardice. Secrets are for pussies and cheating housewives.
Let's review a few gems from this tear jerking lonely little site that has the blog community on it's ear -
Right off the bat here you can't get more stupid than this. Hey DIPSHIT I'm afraid of not existing as well. That's why I keep breathing you fuck.
Here - news flash - if the psychiatrist told you that you would be fine again, first off don't tell Tom Cruise because he'll break your legs for talking to a therapist and secondly get your fucking money back. Ready here you go - "YOULL BE FINE AGAIN". That will be 280$ - a check is fine.
No no no no no you aren't. And you were happy before. Trust me when you were 6 and you had ice cream you were happy. And you know what who gives a fuck if you are happy. Your post card is laden with everything that tells me you aren't happy. A) You have to tell me about it - obvious sign of phoniness. B) You specified your age signifying that you are somehow unhappy with your happiness at such a late age. You must be crying somewhere deep down inside at those wasted years. So fuck your happiness you are full of shit.
Oh God. Someone sound the hippy alarm. Someone - anyone. Please for God's sake this woman leaving jagged edged pottery saying "Save the Marsupials" and "God is a woman" is littering our forests with her pagan messages. Or you can just tell her to get a fucking life and get laid from time to time.
No shit - so is everyone else. Get a fucking helmet and jump back in the game you pussy.
Yeah and the 17 guys you gave a VD to will come to your house and kill your puppy puddles for being such a whore. Good luck looking your husband in the face with the knowledge that you are a slam pig.
Than for fucks sake do it and send in that photo. Stop teasing me with turds on white carpets and if you aren't gonna do it make up something really horrific to fantasize about like staging a play of Stephen King's Misery with your Mother as the writer and you as Kathy Bates with a sledge hammer. Now that's a fucking revenge fantasy - not dropping a deuce on someone's rug. That's amateur right there.
Uh huh - yawn. Yaaaaaawwwwwnnnnn. It's God's fault that you got molested or beaten. God's not busy and oh by the way what happened to you - man - that was the worst thing in the history of the world. I mean nobody has ever had anything bad happen to them. Actually you know what - I just stubbed my toe - must have been God's fault. You fucking dolt.
And I'm the guy that comes in after you have your awful poetry in the back of all the Milan Kundera novels and Amelia Alcott flip books to tell you that you are an awful poet that should think about shaving her armpits or joining a convent. If I wanted to read your poetry I would buy a fucking book that you released.
I hope this didn't last past the aged of - ohh I don't know ---- 3 - because if it did obviously you were a special child in need of a friend or two. Either way I have no idea why you think this is a secret. This is more of an amusing anecdote that you tell on a first date in order to get the girl to identify with your childlike warmth. Secret - I have better secrets sneak out of my ass when I'm not looking.
Bret's secret: "I come up behind people that pretend they are reading and punch them as hard as I can in the neck and tell them to read their fucking book and to mind their own business." This isn't so much of a secret as it is a way to let people know that A) you read *clap *clap and B) You are cooler than those walking around in that you feel the need to dupe them and then mock or judge them as they go about their natural lives.
That's all for now - come get me about this one.
