Hate Me. Or, Well, At Least Don’t Like Me.

Fuck.

I don’t advocate censorship. A lot of the time I don’t even advocate ethical behavior. But as so stated above, ethics in my opinion shares a neighboring grave with objectivity.

My name is Trey. I don’t like a lot of things. In fact I guess you could say I hate a lot of things. Original, oh but don’t I know it. I have a bitterly bleak outlook not of my own life, no no but of the lives around me. That pains me. I blame each of you for my high blood pressure at the ripe old age of 23.

Everything you do, every opinion you assert, and every unintelligent argument that you broach makes my head writhe. It’s like arthritis of the mind; it can’t be escaped. Don’t take it personally. I use ‘you’ loosely as the subject. Hell, I’m sure there are one or two of you out there reading my pilot into the blogging realm that will agree with everything that I have to say.

Don’t bother asking if I feel bad for you as well. I do.

So what the fuck is my problem? I get that a lot; honestly, I really do. I’ve been around; figuratively, not sexually of course. Ahem. Could it be the fact that I’m stuck in a town that supposedly promotes ‘higher education’? Just because you’re in college really doesn’t suggest intelligence is one of your most notable assets. Oh shit, harsh reality check, dude.

That’s most certainly one of my problems. I have an opinion, about everything really. I’m one of those fellas that thinks for himself. Scary isn’t it? I’m a self-loathing narcissist. Oxymoronic as it may seem, quite possible it is. Some may call it depression, some may even call it bi-polar disorder, I simply call it having a mind of my own.

Ultimately I’ll come to conclude that everything is the fault of traditional media, but for now let’s narrow the field a bit. You’ll hear enough about television, print, radio, and how I disdain all of the above in future episodes I promise you.

Before you go calling me a hypocrite, let me absolve the sins of my earlier days. Once upon a not so distant past I too used to enjoy going out to the bars on a weekly basis and getting as fucked up crunk shitty as the next meathead. God forbid me to entertain the idea that I could actually enjoy hearing Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” sung by each incompetent, inebriated fratbag in the bar time and time again.

So what happened one may ask? What benevolent force dawned upon me this revelation that there is so much more to life than being a part of the social norm? Why deviate from those of which I call my friends to explore this sobered sense of self?

I got sick. I’ll spare you the details. How sick is a matter of irrelevance which was deeply skewed by my impaired state of mind. Maybe I’m among the minority, but when all you know in your day is laying helplessly in front of the TV watching every possible recording on your DVR your mind begins to wander. It wonders if you will ever see another healthy day or if your death will be quick and painless. It wonders if Death himself will linger above you for weeks on end as your body and mind breakdown into incoherent dust before sifting away in the proverbial wind. Finally, it wonders if giving up actually is the best option.

At this point a person of the socially acceptable mindset would begin to appreciate all he or she has to be thankful for in this life, and as the symptoms begin to fade away so does the bitterness of having befallen victim to this affliction.

I didn’t.

Quite the contrary in fact. I began to concentrate and focus upon each individual iniquity that this life has shoved in my undeserving face. From petty bar fights to one night stands gone horribly wrong. It’s all meaningless and yet each instance thrives inside of me, growing as I helplessly take the backseat to the demon within.

A lot of things make me mad. There are few anymore that make me happy.

I’m not going to be the next culprit in a campus shooting. The fact of the matter is I stand firm in my belief that NRA stands for the National Redneck Association. My words are simply my outlet to express my anger and disdain for the world around me. I’m mad, and some may call me a wordsmith. Put the two together and I have discovered an identity that I didn’t realize I was entirely capable of.

This is merely a prelude.

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Trey -AKA- The Mad Wordsmith