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[ seven holy virtues ]
What the fuck is faith but empty feelings that can't ever be fulfilled?
Having a belief in something that's not tangible, that can't be.
Some string of confidence that gets twisted in the wind and broken and knotted and frayed.
I had faith once.
In love. In marriage. In my wife.
In my unborn child.
Perhaps God even.
But one fell, then two fell, then three fell, and pretty soon there were none.
So fuck Faith.
Fickle as any woman I've ever had the misfortune of knowing.
Worse actually, because you can't get off on faith.
Faith is for suckers.
Hope, faith's sister.
Just as tempting, twice as evil.
I used to hope.
Hope to have a good Sunday with my wife, fill my day with love making.
Hope to finish the next chapter before I absolutely have to get up and take a shit.
Now what do I hope for?
What's there left to hope for?
I hope that Amy regrets it.
I hope that that rubberneckin' fuck gets testicular cancer and can't get it up.
Except hope is supposed to be uplifting.
Those feelings may be many things, but uplifting is not one of them.
Fuck hope, too.
I've never been a magnanimous man, and I'm certainly not going to start now.
I'm expected to be though.
Because I'm 'famous,' I'm 'rich.'
I'm expected to give money to whatever cause they've deemed 'worthy' these days.
I'm expected to give my money to these greedy fucks that accept it on the pretense of helping others when all they're doing is making themselves look good.
I've seen what they do.
I've seen those fake smiles of theirs.
The only true charity is to give of one's self, and I do that with my writing.
Which really does make me a prick, doesn't it?
You want to hear about my strengths?
How about how I didn't pull that trigger in the hotel?
How about how I didn't wring her scrawny fucking neck when she came crying to me about forgiveness and 'growing as people?'
How about how I never told her I couldn't eat for a week after we lost the baby?
How about how I never let her know that while on the outside I looked like a rock, on the inside I was crumbling?
I'm as weak as the next person, we all are.
Strength is nothing compared to your acting ability.
You look it, you are it.
Ying and yang.
Black and white.
Yes and no.
Cause and effect.
No such thing.
Nothing ever equals anything, that's the fucking point.
If chocolate truly were the same as sex, women would never spread their legs.
Children who never did anything wrong in their life except being born in Africa die of AIDS at age 6.
Rapists get off in 3 years.
I'm faithful to my wife, provide for my wife, make money and buy a house for my wife.
She cheats on me with some scrawny asshole from Kentucky.
There is no justice.
Never will be.
When she calls I resist the urge to hang up on her fat ugly face.
When she calls I resist the urge to curse her and her house that's supposed to be ours, and the shitkicker that occupies what was our bed.
When she calls I resist the urge to ask her why.
When she calls I resist the urge to quote her sonnets, and tell her how much I miss her.
When she calls I resist the urge to beg her to come back.
When she calls I resist the urge to cry.
So yeah, I have self-restraint.
For all the good it does me.
I had an idea for my next book.
It's about a woman, a blonde, who marries the kid from the wrong side of the tracks and makes him think he's good for something.
She loves him, and encourages him when he thinks his writing is for shit.
She smiles as he makes his big break, and cuts clippings from the newspaper when there are articles.
Then she cheats on him for months before he knows, and thinks her apologies mean something.
And then I reject the idea because it's too obvious it still hurts, and there's nothing to be gained by giving her that satisfaction.