After unintentionally meeting and painfully listening to many wannabe writers who desperately want to establish their name among the legends of the written word, I have come to a conclusion. This heaven resembling world is a very magnificent place where flowers grow for getting plucked during the auspicious eve of Valentine’s, raindrops fall on fairies’ rosy red cheeks, puppies run towards infants’ laps to seek solace and comfort and couples walk with their bare feet on the sand while the setting sun watches them from dusky clouds. And before I forget, the clouds work hard to kiss the sea. If you also have a similar perception of the world around you, there is no hope left in my head for humanity to progress beyond the superficiality of romanticizing normality.
When you write some lines one below the other with a light gray background image and then caption it with a black heart, it doesn’t turn into poetry to be very clear. If Charles Bukowski was alive, his pen would have pierced your and other such poets’ chests. In case you don’t have any idea whatsoever about the person whose name I have specifically dropped in the last line, you and your diary of wasteful art will be reduced to pungent smelling ashes in the hell of crappy literature along with other pseudo-writers’ stinky work. To make utter fun of your mystical soul and degrade your desiring heart, your Instagram account will be permanently blocked and your micro-poetry posts will be deleted one by one. Your soul will plead for mercy for the crime it committed against enthusiastic readers whom you offered nothing more than a pile of shit from your mental dumpster.
I witness a lot of people on Twitter whose bio proudly displays in bold letters that they are a writer or a blogger or a poet or whatever comes in between those categories of validation seeking words. Besides the fact that those Twitter users consider all of their great self-proclaimed accomplishments a gift to feed their narcissistic sense of self, they even have the balls to go to the heights of being modest. And modesty in their world of imagination and illusion demands that they refer to themselves as an occasional writer with a knack for words, emerging blogger with an interest in travel and also a closeted poet who makes photographs. You read that right. Some Homo Sapiens among us believe that photographs are made and not clicked. For them, every day is an opportunity to fool their own decaying intellect. If that was not enough already, to heighten their presence among the pseudo-literary amateurs, these people on social media and Tinder refer to themselves as bibliophiles, sapiosexuals, and lovers of coffee and books. To decipher the three potty bombs dropped in the previous line, we’ll proceed to understand them one term at a time. With the obvious presence of a sly smile on my face, I pledge to aim and shoot and humiliate these people’s nasty sense of rational thinking.
The first term. A bibliophile is a person who collects or has a great love for books. I don’t think librarians count in this category because they don’t give a damn about labeling themselves with fancy ass terminology. Coming to these people who belong to the category of pen owning losers who publicly display their dirty and nonsensical written work while disregarding the notions of art and literature, for them, I have one thing to say. They absolutely haven’t read any of the books they wish to eagerly collect and are secretly in love with because if they had read them, they would have known that books and humans can’t love each other. This mere piece of evidence in the court of artistic justice denies their existence as a bibliophile. I demand the honorable judge to ban them from Tinder before they spoil the possibility of a future date of a desperate man who wishes to get laid this weekend.
Now the second term. A sapiosexual is a person who is attracted to intelligence or the human mind before appearance. This makes total sense because the living beings whom we are bashing, they rarely show their faces in public. Moreover, they are often found running pages where anonymous or plump lip girl or sassy inkpot is the name of the poet. These people are therefore doomed and unfortunately destined to attract their own type who just like them survives with the inherent fear of being rejected and bears a crappy pseudonym. Since these retards can only feel excited through intellectual stimulation by their equally retarded partner, it makes sense for them to mutually mindsturbate. This will save the human race from suffering and another generation of unuseful writers won’t come to life.
The third term. A coffee and book lover is the mix of the above two categories. It is a subgroup of people who have an insanely tremendous difficulty in waking up to the fact that they have no real person to talk to, share food with and touch the genitals of. To compensate for this harsh reality of their life which they have a very hard time coping with, they find themselves in bed with a cup of coffee sleeping next to them. The books that lie on their study table are never ever read and are only placed there to click pictures. Those pictures then go through a number of editing sessions before they are subjected to receive approval from virtually existing social media buffs and bums via love dovey comments and heart-shaped likes.
In this cult of losers where regular fantasies for a Pulitzer prize take place, the worst losers among them have come up with this new term called demisexual. This term was coined to set apart a gang of empty heads who wanted to feel stupid and foolish in a totally independent and unique way. A demisexual is a person who does not experience sexual attraction unless they form a strong emotional connection with someone. Due to these people’s over-thinking and under-efficient brain that produces unrealistically high expectations of romance, these people only receive love and experience intimacy with the woman who malnourished them in her womb. To further manage distress, psychological insecurities and break free from loneliness, demisexual folks cuddle pups and post pictures with them so that they can show the world how amazingly joyful they are. Fortunately, it only shows me how terrible your demisexual life is and I feel sad for the small pups who can’t defend themselves from your unwanted touch.
Besides the above categorized future agents of rotten literature, there are people who roam around in the world with an overpriced spiral diary and a visually appealing pen. To not talk about and express hate towards them will be a sheer disrespect and disregard for their wasteful aliveness among people who live on the Earth. These self-obsessed wannabes are seen sitting with their legs folded in places like parks where they consciously turn into an obstacle for little kids who want to freely run and play with their Frisbee. At times you can even spot them sitting on rocks located on high hills and in between rivers where they pretend to not feel any sort of disturbance from local villagers’ repeated instructions to return to the tourist camp. For a mere moment of attention and a high-resolution camera picture, these dumbos risk their lives and spoil the reputation of other grown-up adults who in their age work and earn rather than bullshit around.
To learn and understand what sort of art makes an impact and what kind of art doesn’t, it takes enough patience and smartness. The world around us is also a place where religious men are caught with their penises in kids’ and women’s orifices, governments are scammed by capitalists, lavish weddings end in the marital rape of bride and where terrorists seek pleasure in shedding blood of innocent countrymen. To write about what is real makes as much of good work as your #wanderlust does. But then that kind of writing doesn’t get you Aww and beating heart GIFs.
Do as you may and as your might may invite
Your freedom of expression is not my right
So go ahead and write whatever you wanna write
Just save that flowery ass of yours that is unusually tight
Because I am a bitch and always gonna bite
Arpit Chhikara 