There is no way to state this but
plainly. I'm actually the best. I'm better than you. I'm better than
people you know. I am the best, and it's a burden, but it's been true
for a very long time, and I think it underwrites a good portion of
why my life looks the way it does, good and bad.
Let's get the classics out of the way. I was the best at work. No one else ran around. No one else could easily demand promotions or stave off plots to get me fired. I was so good at one job they told me to slow down and taught me things only the managers were supposed to know. I got so much free food and random store items, I couldn't use their ticket incentives fast enough. I threw the best parties. I utilized every physical and mental inch in what I created and who I invited to keep them (primarily) safe and memory-makingly entertaining. I had the best car. It wasn't the most expensive, but it got the most looks, most people talking, and got the most attention. I wasn't the valedictorian, but I did school the best. You have to have something figured out when they let you drop a whole class from your schedule and fit 3 band periods into your senior year, right? I got an entire semesters worth of work done in less than a week after my computer got stolen in college.
Keeping it going, I had the best girlfriend. Girls surely compliment each others' looks, but no one garnered the attention and comments like mine. She was, as I'm learning more and more over time, genuinely the best person in that little circle-jerk thrown together by school. I've got the best hair, the best teeth. I dream the biggest, take on the biggest tasks. I give people that over and over and over again fuck me or lie to me chances and make room for them in my, often personally referred to, “sociopathic” sensibilities. I work harder and longer at things you pretend to care about or be interested in. I account for the details in the lives of the people I care about like taking the dog out or trying not to wake you when I come in the door. I read the most. I watch the most. I contribute the most energy or jokes to make sure the party isn't a bust.
This thought train isn't empty yet, because I'm the best at turning my shit circumstances into living like royalty. My perspective is the best because I know, believe, and assert constantly that I don't have real problems. I take and work with my stress, talk about it, and attempt to connect or diffuse. I take difficult conversations and generally refrain from name calling, throwing your entire being under the bus, or ignoring any questions you may have. I pay attention to the details. I make plans to incorporate or help people who don't even know they're on my radar. I treat everyone with the same courtesy and honesty that I treat myself with, and while it's rarely appreciated, in the liberal fantasy land dream where we're all equal, you have to meet me in order to see what that really feels like.
As the best, if you don't meet people who are also the best, be prepared to die. They don't have the balls to actually try and kill you, they try to tear down your conception of yourself. They make no distinctions about those who are the best and those who can only claim to be the best. They make memes romanticizing their good grades and awards growing up only to have melted into a pile of self-involved nihilism. They start speaking too happily about whatever job they've fallen into or mediocre friends that have one interesting thing about them they've clung to their entire lives.
You, as the best, by contrast are sad. No, really, you are, they insist. You're sad because you're lonely and mean. You're sad because you insist that people actually acknowledge and speak to you instead of call you names and judge you. Who are you? They scream, to suggest their thoughts, opinions, and feelings are wrong? Where do you get off? Talking about their happy lives or hobbies as if you have some secret they don't. They get together and gossip and create feedback loops and adopt their cliches because even the thought of you is an abomination! All without irony.
The most fun you can have with being the best is seeing every scathing detail of where a conversation, or likely fight, is going. You know why every line exists. You can see the need for them to turn towards pissing matches. You can feel their sadness. You can see their inner-child's lip quivering at the thought of saying that perfectly stupid thing that I'm going to pounce on and turn them inside out with. I'm the best at body language, tone, and word choice because I've spent an untold number of hours thinking about how I used to be less than the best in how I exhibited them. It's never an accident, I knew my earnest desire for truth and honest questions would piss you off, but I chose to “lose” my way and not with a temper tantrum you wanted to see.
The best does. This is an extinct concept in modernity. I do what I say. I create, I try, I work, and I scrape together every inch of the perfect picture I dream of. I will make you hate me when I'm tired of your cowardice. I will make you, oh you, little “nice” accommodating fucking dog shit liar, bust out the “fuck you” after I've decided I'm tired of your bullshit. My instincts are the best! Why don't you listen? I knew it was a lie. I wanted the distraction, the option to maybe fuck around with down the line, not a right and proper friend. I knew you weren't capable of that, but I played along. For you, for your deceit, I gave you a chance. I got wasted words and effort in return. I get told “fuck you” because I don't roll over and say, “You're right, I'm roasting in my own personal hell, everything I do or say is wrong, I'll just go over here and die now.” I don't accept your lie anymore. Feel free to keep thinking all sorts of terrible things about yourself, but you're not hijacking my mind.
You have to think, any expression of being the best, with Trump as president, has to make your stomach sink, right? Ego and narcissism are wrong by default. They're going to march us into World War III applauding and cheering. But this is only a distinction lost on people who aren't the best. I'm not at the mercy of my conception of myself, as my relationship to anyone less than me testifies. I'm not addicted to empty boasts about things I haven't actually done or don't actually believe. I don't want attention for attention's sake. I want 5 minutes with any, literally any, real person. Overwhelmingly, that absolutely is not you. It never was.
I have the best friends. It's not because they're sociopaths or social manipulators. They're actually them. You know why you don't mean anything to me? You know why I'm comfortable “brow beating” you into a whiny lashing out pulp? You're pushing 30 and can't engage the bratty child in your gut that still dictates your decisions. You can't make the insecure crying tween in the mirror happy. You only know how to respond to reality by pulling back, hiding behind, and biting. I'm the realest you're ever going to meet, so I get bitten the hardest.
Real. This concept that's reduced to a black people twitter meme picture of a hood rat mouthing off about the dangers of the street or who's about to get beat down. Real is that life was never, nor will ever be, this shining beacon of achievement and love on a hill. No amount of paint you use to cover up the shit stain of your being is going to erase the hint of a smell. Real is that you don't matter. Our relationship doesn't matter. We're inventing it every moment, and when you or I die in the plane crash or car accident on the way to see each other, no one will blink. Only you'll die a liar and afraid and full of regret for how you've squandered all that's been given to you.
To feel all of that at your core and still refrain from treating you like the husks and cunts and disgusting lazy creatures that you are? To be disrespected and disregarded and made to swallow the black holes at the center of your being, sucking everything into your crushing hell. How else do you bare it with a smile and resolve to keep going unless you're the best? You can't live up to me. You aren't even you. You're the recycling of a broken culture and nonsense words you'll never bother to learn how to use. I no longer wish I cared. You're up here, as the best, with me, or I'm literally going to attack you. You ready?
"I'm The Best - Inspiration" excerpt:
This is the most important thing when you're dealing with lesser-order animals you might want to consider friends. They are death. If you treat them as anything less than death, you will grow blind to what's being killed within you. They are the death of reason. They are the death of honesty. They are the death of truth. Their struggle is not “the struggle.” They're words you should liken to the noises of a distressed farm animal. They will kill your esteem. They will kill your desire. They will make you forget that the best exists and ensure you forget what it looks like. No invitation to hang out, no dollar amount, and no magically tightening around your cock pussy is worth giving yourself over to them. They are not your friends. They are not your family. You've been duly warned.
Let's get the classics out of the way. I was the best at work. No one else ran around. No one else could easily demand promotions or stave off plots to get me fired. I was so good at one job they told me to slow down and taught me things only the managers were supposed to know. I got so much free food and random store items, I couldn't use their ticket incentives fast enough. I threw the best parties. I utilized every physical and mental inch in what I created and who I invited to keep them (primarily) safe and memory-makingly entertaining. I had the best car. It wasn't the most expensive, but it got the most looks, most people talking, and got the most attention. I wasn't the valedictorian, but I did school the best. You have to have something figured out when they let you drop a whole class from your schedule and fit 3 band periods into your senior year, right? I got an entire semesters worth of work done in less than a week after my computer got stolen in college.
Keeping it going, I had the best girlfriend. Girls surely compliment each others' looks, but no one garnered the attention and comments like mine. She was, as I'm learning more and more over time, genuinely the best person in that little circle-jerk thrown together by school. I've got the best hair, the best teeth. I dream the biggest, take on the biggest tasks. I give people that over and over and over again fuck me or lie to me chances and make room for them in my, often personally referred to, “sociopathic” sensibilities. I work harder and longer at things you pretend to care about or be interested in. I account for the details in the lives of the people I care about like taking the dog out or trying not to wake you when I come in the door. I read the most. I watch the most. I contribute the most energy or jokes to make sure the party isn't a bust.
This thought train isn't empty yet, because I'm the best at turning my shit circumstances into living like royalty. My perspective is the best because I know, believe, and assert constantly that I don't have real problems. I take and work with my stress, talk about it, and attempt to connect or diffuse. I take difficult conversations and generally refrain from name calling, throwing your entire being under the bus, or ignoring any questions you may have. I pay attention to the details. I make plans to incorporate or help people who don't even know they're on my radar. I treat everyone with the same courtesy and honesty that I treat myself with, and while it's rarely appreciated, in the liberal fantasy land dream where we're all equal, you have to meet me in order to see what that really feels like.
As the best, if you don't meet people who are also the best, be prepared to die. They don't have the balls to actually try and kill you, they try to tear down your conception of yourself. They make no distinctions about those who are the best and those who can only claim to be the best. They make memes romanticizing their good grades and awards growing up only to have melted into a pile of self-involved nihilism. They start speaking too happily about whatever job they've fallen into or mediocre friends that have one interesting thing about them they've clung to their entire lives.
You, as the best, by contrast are sad. No, really, you are, they insist. You're sad because you're lonely and mean. You're sad because you insist that people actually acknowledge and speak to you instead of call you names and judge you. Who are you? They scream, to suggest their thoughts, opinions, and feelings are wrong? Where do you get off? Talking about their happy lives or hobbies as if you have some secret they don't. They get together and gossip and create feedback loops and adopt their cliches because even the thought of you is an abomination! All without irony.
The most fun you can have with being the best is seeing every scathing detail of where a conversation, or likely fight, is going. You know why every line exists. You can see the need for them to turn towards pissing matches. You can feel their sadness. You can see their inner-child's lip quivering at the thought of saying that perfectly stupid thing that I'm going to pounce on and turn them inside out with. I'm the best at body language, tone, and word choice because I've spent an untold number of hours thinking about how I used to be less than the best in how I exhibited them. It's never an accident, I knew my earnest desire for truth and honest questions would piss you off, but I chose to “lose” my way and not with a temper tantrum you wanted to see.
The best does. This is an extinct concept in modernity. I do what I say. I create, I try, I work, and I scrape together every inch of the perfect picture I dream of. I will make you hate me when I'm tired of your cowardice. I will make you, oh you, little “nice” accommodating fucking dog shit liar, bust out the “fuck you” after I've decided I'm tired of your bullshit. My instincts are the best! Why don't you listen? I knew it was a lie. I wanted the distraction, the option to maybe fuck around with down the line, not a right and proper friend. I knew you weren't capable of that, but I played along. For you, for your deceit, I gave you a chance. I got wasted words and effort in return. I get told “fuck you” because I don't roll over and say, “You're right, I'm roasting in my own personal hell, everything I do or say is wrong, I'll just go over here and die now.” I don't accept your lie anymore. Feel free to keep thinking all sorts of terrible things about yourself, but you're not hijacking my mind.
You have to think, any expression of being the best, with Trump as president, has to make your stomach sink, right? Ego and narcissism are wrong by default. They're going to march us into World War III applauding and cheering. But this is only a distinction lost on people who aren't the best. I'm not at the mercy of my conception of myself, as my relationship to anyone less than me testifies. I'm not addicted to empty boasts about things I haven't actually done or don't actually believe. I don't want attention for attention's sake. I want 5 minutes with any, literally any, real person. Overwhelmingly, that absolutely is not you. It never was.
I have the best friends. It's not because they're sociopaths or social manipulators. They're actually them. You know why you don't mean anything to me? You know why I'm comfortable “brow beating” you into a whiny lashing out pulp? You're pushing 30 and can't engage the bratty child in your gut that still dictates your decisions. You can't make the insecure crying tween in the mirror happy. You only know how to respond to reality by pulling back, hiding behind, and biting. I'm the realest you're ever going to meet, so I get bitten the hardest.
Real. This concept that's reduced to a black people twitter meme picture of a hood rat mouthing off about the dangers of the street or who's about to get beat down. Real is that life was never, nor will ever be, this shining beacon of achievement and love on a hill. No amount of paint you use to cover up the shit stain of your being is going to erase the hint of a smell. Real is that you don't matter. Our relationship doesn't matter. We're inventing it every moment, and when you or I die in the plane crash or car accident on the way to see each other, no one will blink. Only you'll die a liar and afraid and full of regret for how you've squandered all that's been given to you.
To feel all of that at your core and still refrain from treating you like the husks and cunts and disgusting lazy creatures that you are? To be disrespected and disregarded and made to swallow the black holes at the center of your being, sucking everything into your crushing hell. How else do you bare it with a smile and resolve to keep going unless you're the best? You can't live up to me. You aren't even you. You're the recycling of a broken culture and nonsense words you'll never bother to learn how to use. I no longer wish I cared. You're up here, as the best, with me, or I'm literally going to attack you. You ready?
"I'm The Best - Inspiration" excerpt:
This is the most important thing when you're dealing with lesser-order animals you might want to consider friends. They are death. If you treat them as anything less than death, you will grow blind to what's being killed within you. They are the death of reason. They are the death of honesty. They are the death of truth. Their struggle is not “the struggle.” They're words you should liken to the noises of a distressed farm animal. They will kill your esteem. They will kill your desire. They will make you forget that the best exists and ensure you forget what it looks like. No invitation to hang out, no dollar amount, and no magically tightening around your cock pussy is worth giving yourself over to them. They are not your friends. They are not your family. You've been duly warned.
