Recently it has been brought to my attention that, in my thirty-three years, not only have I told a fair chunk of people to fuck off, but I’ve also become quite good at it. Admittedly, it’s a skill of dubious honour to possess, but if there’s one thing I learned after twelve years of Catholic school, it’s that God wants you to make the most of the gifts he bestows upon you. Sometimes those gifts lack subtlety, and on the surface can seem like the by-product of an antisocial personality disorder, but they are natural talents nonetheless. Besides, I’ve never told anyone to fuck off who didn’t deserve it.
Over breakfast on Saturday, Rin suggested that I chronicle my many fuck off stories here. Later that night, I started making a list and found that I’ve told a surprisingly high number of people which exit they can get off at. Sometimes I stayed friends with these people and sometimes we parted ways, but everytime I told them to fuck off. This will be a series of at least five or six parts. If you don’t like it, feel free to leave a comment, and if you’re really lucky, I’ll tell you to fuck off, too.
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