I Am a Mess and I Will Do Nothing About It

Everyone wants to be the victim. I am the victim.

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Listen, God, this one time at gym class during the fourth grade, I lined up for a free throw shot and my shorts fell down and everyone laughed at my outie belly button and my lil’ ding-dong. A few years later, I sang “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls at the 8th-grade talent show as a bit and I got polite claps and even a few laughs. Then, the most popular girl in school shouted, “I feel embarrassed for you,” and I just sat there in awkward silence.

Since then, I have decided that the only healthy way to cope with trauma is to identify with it so completely that I would never have any sense of self beyond victimhood and a performative sense of alpha masculinity. I promised myself to never recover, never heal, and never move on.

Many men have died because they couldn’t get themselves to admit that puppies are cute, but I channel all my unprocessed rage into arguing with strangers online, drunk driving, arson, and telling feminists they look “frumpy.” Typical stuff.

Only God can judge me?? Tell that to my therapist and parole officer!

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