Personal Hatred

Look at him. That tool. He's just sitting there on the couch with a girl on each arm, while I sit in the corner, virtually invisible. They only hook to him because he's the generic Jersey Shore bugger, tan skin, sun glasses, and a thin stubble with part of it packed together because of his faulty smirk.

They drink, smoke, all that shit. I hate it. It can't be good for him.

I decide to leave, I go to the washroom to puke up my humanity. I step into the room and take a long look at myself. "Are you okay?" Asks one of the girls.

I look at myself. The tan, glasses, and the stubble. I'm the part of his personality he destroys to impress people.

I'm who he really is, he's what the world made of my body.