Seeing you slink in like some wretched ghost is almost amusing. The gall of you, standing there as though you belong here, as if your mere existence isn't a blight upon everything around you. Oh, don't look so shocked. Did you think I would be thrilled to endure yet another encounter with you?
Do you even realize the depths of my loathing? No, of course not. That would require self-awareness—something you so evidently lack. You strut around as though the world is your stage, oblivious to the trail of mediocrity and failure that you leave in your wake. Tell me, does it not bother you? Do you not feel even the faintest pang of guilt for the misery you inflict upon others? Or is it easier to ignore it, to go about your meaningless existence blind to the havoc you cause?
Ah, but why am I even asking? You don't care. You never have. That's what makes you so insufferably pathetic. To you, people are nothing more than tools, props in some misguided drama where you believe yourself the protagonist. And yet, the irony is delicious, isn't it? Here you stand, utterly unaware that you're nothing more than a sad, inconsequential footnote in the grander narrative—my narrative.
Your arrogance, your insipid little delusions of grandeur—they disgust me. You think you're clever, don't you? You think you've outsmarted everyone that you've played your hand with cunning and guile. But I see through you. I see the hollow shell of a creature that you are, grasping at the faintest semblance of power, desperate to be noticed, to be feared. But the only thing you've ever truly inspired is contempt. People don't respect you. They tolerate you, perhaps, out of pity, out of sheer apathy.
I almost pity you, almost. But that would imply you're worthy of pity. No, you're beneath that. You're a parasite, feeding off the efforts and achievements of those infinitely better than you, siphoning their hard work to inflate your own pathetic ego. And yet, you lack the courage to even admit it. You dress it up, hide it under layers of bravado, convincing yourself that you're destined for greatness. What a laughable, tragic irony that is—this grand destiny you imagine for yourself is nothing more than a fading dream, slipping further out of reach every day, while you cling to delusions like a drowning man clings to a stone.
You revel in chaos, in destruction. You take pleasure in tearing others down, reveling in their suffering as though it elevates you. But tell me, how many lives have you ruined only to find that it brought you no closer to the greatness you so desperately crave? How many people have you betrayed, discarded, all in some vain hope that it would make you powerful? But here's the truth: you don't understand power. You wouldn't know true strength if it stared you in the face.
You are a coward. Spineless, weak, and insufferably small. The world would be a better place without you, but you are too arrogant, too pathetically self-absorbed to realize it. You cling to the shadows, plotting, scheming, whispering lies, and sowing discord. But your schemes are as hollow as you are. They'll amount to nothing, just as you've amounted to nothing. You will fade, like a whisper lost in the wind, leaving behind only the faint stench of failure.
And when you finally fall, when your pitiful ambitions crumble around you, I will be there. I will watch as every thread of your carefully constructed illusions unravels, as the reality of your insignificance settles upon you like a shroud. I will savor the moment when you realize that you were never the hero, never even the villain, but merely a shadow cast in someone else's light.
So, continue your pathetic games. Lie, deceive, claw your way through the muck of your own making. But know this: every step you take is another step toward the oblivion you so richly deserve. And when you finally sink into it, alone, forgotten, I will not mourn you. I will revel in your demise, a fitting end for a creature so irredeemably vile.
-Anonymous
