I was a terrible human being, and I don’t regret anything I did, except
maybe the choices I made on my last day on Earth. I learned to become the
man I am from my father, but not in the way you’re probably assuming. Dad
was the greatest guy ever, who literally wouldn’t hurt a fly. I had to take
care of the pests myself, because he couldn’t bring himself to do it. I wish
his parents had encouraged him to deal with things like that, if only to
teach him how to stand up for himself. His wife—my father—cheated on him,
chronically, and openly. She just kept doing it, but never left him, because
he made good money, and she didn’t think the court would make him pay
alimony if she was clearly the bad egg in the relationship. He continued to
give her anything she wanted, and didn’t divorce her, because he was just
too nice. He was fired for costing the company too much in accumulated
raises, just before he would be able to receive full pension. He got shot in
the gut once, trying to mediate a street fight. He survived the attack, only
to die in his hospital room a few days later after a nurse screwed up his
medication. It was an ongoing issue too; something that had to build up in
his system. We’re all pretty sure that he noticed the mistake, but didn’t
say anything, because he didn’t want to bother her. I knew that I couldn’t
live my life like he did his. He was forced to do his best to hide how
miserable he was, and I realized that the only way to be happy is to take
what you need, and not worry about how it makes other people feel. People
hated me, but never fought against my selfishness, because they were worried
about how I would react if they called me out on my shit. I’m sure things
would have worked out just fine, but I found that letting them be afraid of
me served me better than being kind and honest.
I was right to be the way that I was, all the way up to the day that I
died...but not through the day that I died. I suppose you would tell me that
that’s proof my lifestyle didn’t work, but it was really just one fluke, and
had I survived it, I doubt I would have changed my ways, and I doubt it
would have come back to bite me in the ass later. My dad suffered from
reverse karma. The more good he put into the universe, the more the universe
took, and it never gave back. I, on the other hand, had a wonderful life,
filled with booze, broads, and buttloads of money. I had a high-paying job,
and I didn’t listen to people who told me I didn’t deserve to be happy. It
was only this one time that I guess I should have opened my ears a little
bit. So I was walking down into the subway, trying to enjoy my audiocast
when this smug asshole wearing all hemp assaults my senses with his
mediocre—but loud—rendition of some dumb pop song I didn’t care about. As I
was walking by, I kicked his guitar case closed. I didn’t padlock it, or
anything. All he had to do was reopen it, but suddenly I was attacked by a
bunch of social justice workers who thought I was starting a war on the
poor. I didn’t care that he was poor, I just didn’t want him to interrupt
the latest episode of Sexy Serial Killers. I defended myself, as one does,
but they just kept screaming at me for being a bad person. Whatever, it
wasn’t like any of these people mattered. Except, apparently, they did.
While I was trying to stand as far from the crowd as possible, I ended up
slipping over the edge, and down onto the tracks, twisting my ankle, and
possibly breaking my hand. The injuries turned out to be the least of my
concerns when I realized that no one was going to help me back up. Death by
subway train. At least you can’t say it was boring.
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