Fuck All of You!

It's your fault, not mine. I can create but you won't let me.

You are all fat, ugly and stupid. 

You are interested in the lives of people you don't know, and who would step over your starving bodies rather than give you a dime of their millions that you all gave to them.

You are star fuckers who fuck themselves over on a near constant basis. 

You don't deserve me, never have, and never will. I'm done with you, and I hope you choke on that greasy burger created for you by that guy named Guy; who can't wear sunglasses correctly and dresses like a fat toddler.

You are bad, 

worse than that, 

you are everywhere.

Your queen is famous for getting fucked on tape. 

Your prince is a boy who sings the songs that make the dead scream for more death. 

You are the reason all is awful. 

With your type two diabetes, cottage cheese thighs, pustules oozing, unwashed hair, belly fighting its way from your skinny jeans, stuck in an endless adolescence, a never ever land of peter pan porn, a world manufactured just for your needless needs, and I wish I could break off bottles of white zin in your thick skin.

 I wish I could bleed you, piggy.

Smash in your heads.

Crush your eyeballs in between my fingers.

Bite your syphilitic dicks off with the mouths of tiger sharks.

Take the brains you don't use and feed them to starving kittens.

Tear out your spinal cords and whip your backs raw with them.

Wrap my hands around the necks of your infants and squeeze until their hydrocephalic heads burst like the zits on your hairy asses, and sew those crabby vagina's shut with razor wire. Stuff you with splinters and termites, rattlesnake eggs, hornets, and kick you in a cage of wolverines and rabid rats armed with spikes. Drop boulders on your babies babies. Break your bones and scratch your skin. Bleed you, piggy. Bleed you dry.

Your wet dream is to be a fucking Kardashian, how pathetic. You breed, pushing out the only thing uglier than you, dumber and more depraved. And for a captain you choose a cheeto stained sock puppet stuffed with hog lips and flaunting a Brillo pad birds nest for a crown of thorns. A fucking clown for a fucking circus. A three ringed nazi shit show. A "Trumped" up cacophany of all that is phony and unfantastic.  Who could be more fitting for you? You are made for one and other, and together you will burn this mother fucker to the ground. Hail, heil, what's the difference? At least the Nazis had some fashion sense? You are an insult to Nazis. No one wants to claim you. A fart would apologize for you, a real asshole. There is not a word offensive enough to discribe the offense to humanity that you have become. I, an athiest, pray every night that maybe you will shoot yourself. A nice accident. A happy ending to this real AAAmerican horror story. 

My biggest achievement, my saving grace, the only thing that keeps me going at all, is the knowledge that I must be doing something right. How do I know this? The proof is in the fact that you don't care for what I create. If you liked my art I would blow my brains to a fine mist::::. That would prove my work is shit. If the same people who crave the songs of Taylor Swift and Adele, the bodies that tap their feet to that song "Happy" by that douche bag in a Canadian Mountie hat, who twitter endlessly about the lives of sisters who made their claim by getting banged by black men with bad taste, and who confuse all art with design and marketing. If those people gobbled up my photos then I would know I am a failure. So, I can't blame the others for not noticing me either. This world is too full of garbage. It has become too large a task to sort through the rubble in search of something great and meaningful. Well, for most it has. For most, art is not that important and this is not something I can blame on anyone. I can tell them, beg them, to try harder; to look for that which can enrich their lives. Living is hard enough. Living in a society like this one (a wasteland for those who crave creative thought) cuts deeper every minute. Life hurts when one thrives only through creativity.

Unfortunately, a big part of being an artist, even though no one wishes to admit it, is recognition, intelligent input, critique, and hopefully accolades. 

Now we have to deal with the opposite as a sign that we may be doing something right. If we put our work out there and no one latches on to it, no one praises its genius, no one makes comparisons to like-minded creators, and no one tries to "brand" you then maybe you are successful.I know my work is great, even though I am dirt poor and unnoticed, mostly. The only praise I receive is from Europeans who have never met me and know nothing about me personally. Europeans still have standards and taste. They still put an importance on not only the art itself but on the artist as a more complete person. They may not grovel at your feet or worship you the way our culture does a sixteen-year-old pregnant girl who wishes to live her life as a man in black face while participating in live gang bangs, but they appreciate you. Even their governments do this by subsidizing your housing and paying you to do whatever it is that you do. They see art as an important part of their civilization. How odd, right? They have not swallowed our McCulture the way we thought they would. They are better, and they don't even brag about it. They never chant "we are number 1". Do we? Fuck Yeah 'cause 'mer1ca is #Number 1! Although, we are maybe seventieth at best.

Yes indeed, America, Fuck you. Fuck your fat asses, slow minds, limited vocabularies, tendencies towards all that is monosyllabic if not literally than metaphorically, and fuck your fingers waving high. To cut off every America's index finger would serve you all right for you are number "nub". You are all nubs, or stubs, or stumps. You are partial. False. Half. Lacking. 

And I hate you all.