Why I hate reading.

I hate reading. There, I said it. Go on, grab the matches, stack the wood, light the pyre, wake the village; we're gonna have us a good ol'-fashioned witch-burnin', fella. Y'all grab Simmons, bring us some kindlin', I'll get down ol' market and fetch us up some gasowleen. Or something. I'm serious, saying "I hate reading" is similar to saying "I touch children"; and, in fact, based on the recent press surrounding child-molestation, the latter would probably receive a better reception from similarly inclined individuals. Saying that you hate reading is probably worse than saying "I hate music", simply because the 'state of modern music' is so 'abhorrent'. Or at least it is thus spun as being such; I wouldn't know, having never lived through numerate ages and centuries. I think, however, that I prefer synthesised auto-tunes over a bard on the lute; if I can utter such cultural blasphemy. Anyway, uncharacteristically I seem to be straying ever further from my original point:

I hate reading.

Hoist the guillotine, for if I must die, it will only be by the hands of an antiquated method of decapitation; I will not have it any other way. String me up to the rigging; thus I can be hung, drawn, and quartered; or flayed with lashings from the cat o' nine tails. Nay, I resist these antediluvian punishments; I wouldst be stoned to death for my views; debased and splayed across the desolate wall of shame; drowning under the various bodily fluids aimed at me for my distorted world-view. Hate me, debase me, rape me, do as thou pleaseth, for I cannot bear the ignominy of this shame.

Woe betide anyone else who holds this fantastically contemporary view of reading, because I can guarantee you that your reasons are far less laudable and empathic than mine are. You probably hate reading because it feels like a hassle coupled with a burden, or perhaps because it's too much effort; even the laconic styling of our modern-day authors too substantive for your tiny insect-brain. Maybe you see reading as too educational, or lamentable in its tedium; perhaps you see it as a waste of time, and as the province of the dusty-haired professor of metaphysics. Well, fuck you. You're a massive moron who should be laid bare and violated by all of civilized society; you ignorant imbecile.

I hate reading because it makes me unfathomably jealous. I cannot bear the envy I feel when I read something so much more accomplished than the bilge I trot out; why must you be so talented, and I so worthless? God, I defy your existence at this travesty of talent.

Dear reader, fear not, I am not as I was on my one-hundredth post, this is mere masquerade; with an undertone of crushingly distressing truth. Embellishment to hide my inner-inadequacies; a marionette of hyperbole to mask the futility of average vainglorious individual soliloquising. I cannot but feel ashamed as I read a passage so utterly captivating such as that which you spin; humorous, engaging, unpredictable, beautifully crafted as if through the ages; a formation of signifiers crystallising into this unintended opulence.

I loathe you, talented author.

DAMN YOU. And why do you know more words than I do? That isn't fair. I'm going to go ahead and read the biblé (I'm bringing this new word into the world, if "minges" qualifies, this sure as hell does), and then read the dictionary, and then more Nietzsche, and spin my erudite tale of Sartrean existentialism. Speaking of which; everyone go read The Reprieve. Then you can feel as worthless and inconsequential as I do.

GO DO IT.

*Eats pizza*.

Have a nice weekend.