We respect our parents, not because they are great guys, not because they played a vital role in bringing us into this world, but because even after seeing for themselves and knowing what we really are, they have stoically owned up to their mistake and didn’t desert us.
We are possessive about our siblings because it is the only guilt free bitching that life offers, and no matter how much we crib about them, we won’t tolerate when the others chime in, the right to guilt free criticism is solely ours.
We love our lovers because they are the only ones who truly enjoy remembering and reliving our past moments, listening to our stories, and joining us to laugh about random details, all of which is utterly useless and boring to everyone else.
We are proud of our opinions because they are, usually, the only things we have brought to existence, our only true achievements, and the pride only grows when others come up with inane refutations or rebuttals, for it proves how they are jealous.
The greatest tragedies seem like child’s play, when compared to our sadness, mostly because the depressing thoughts we have about our lives, our universe, and our existence are derived from that of our friends and relatives who we know don’t deserve any better.
The only thing that stops these thoughts and us from becoming psychopaths, or from a cocaine addiction, is our faith, not so much in the virtues of mankind, or god, or destiny, but the faith we still have in our beer, whiskey, or rum.
At the end of the day however, or anytime during, true happiness – that much underrated, innocent and unconditional type comes from the most disgusting things, or so how the others think about our burps, farts and shit. All we would say to them, is that the disgust is mutual.