I used to believe in things, not like I’m a fucking Gemini so I love everyone or some bullshit like that, but I used to believe in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, and God. I knew that God wasn’t real when my parents told me Santa Claus wasn’t real. I knew that because Santa was way better than God. God was just some needy mother fucker who always wants my love, praise, and prayers. All I have to do is write Santa a note, leave him some milk and cookies, and that big boned son of a bitch is bringing me a boat load of presents on the one fucking day of the year that my asshole father didn’t hit me. It was the only good day growing up, one day out of the year, even after Santa died.

People will say shit, like I’m a good person, and my head isn’t connected to my body, which basically means I don’t know what I want or what I’m feeling – that’s true. It’s not like the mother fucking psychopaths. Those bastards don’t really have feelings. I have feelings; they build up and cause stress, anxiety, anger, sadness, depression, and you know a bunch of other shit that I probably don’t even know about. I just don’t know that I’m having those feelings until someone else asks me why I’m being such an asshole all the time. Then I have to reflect on that.

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