by Darth Bootay » Fri Jul 30, 2004 10:41 pm
WARNING: This rant contains profanity and expresses very harsh sentiments. The views and opinions contained in the following rant are my own and are not the same views and opinions held by GSP, the employees of Funcom or even you, the forum reader. You all have your own views... or you should. This is from me to all the slimy, emptyheaded, attention-seeking bimbos out there...
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I've seen you. You haunt the bars and slink through the cubicle farms. Your warcry is "Love me, adore me!" but all anyone else really hears is "Fuck me, Use me!" Your entire existence revolves around the huge gaping hole in your soul. No one really knows you, and if they did, they wouldn't care. Because you're weak.
Not an honest kind of weak. No, not you. You cover your emptiness and insecurity in skimpy clothes three sizes too small and an air of vapid promiscuity. You think it will make you strong and desirable. But it only makes you a target. You are the saddest of all women, the selfmade victim.
You look outside of yourself for strength, approval and something, anything to fill that sucking vacuum inside you. You think if you can only get enough admirers, enough praise, enough sex -- that you'll finally feel like you're worth something. But in the end, it never works. The more you get, the more you want and you're addicted to the things that only make you feel weaker and more worthless than you already are.
You think you're so clever, using your sex to get ahead. Ahead in your job. Ahead in your scene. Ahead of all those other women, so stupidly working themselves to an early grave for nothing. How can THEY win when you get it so easy on your back? But you're wrong and you know it. Because no matter how little you wear and no matter how wide you spread your legs, they still manage to get some attention. Some credit. Some admiration from the men you think are your playthings. And every man you can't have is another hole in your empty soul.
I can smell your pink stink, the miasma of your self-loathing and doubt. It pollutes every demand for attention and every petty, empty word you speak. You try to use it to obscure the truth. The truth you fear: That no matter how many men you collect, no matter how many women you think you humiliate and belittle and how many sycophants you amass; you will always feel empty and worthless. Because you are. And the saddest truth of all is that you don't have to be. You're just too stupid and lazy and scared to become a real person when you can go on being Malibu Barbie. You're nothing but pink plastic meat.
"Ke barjurir gar'ade, jagyc'ade kot'la a dalyc'ade kotla'shya."
