the irresistible charm of victimhood
Tell me what they did to you. I want to hear all about it, as do my friends, as does EVERYONE ELSE IN THE WHOLE FUCKING WORLD. Please, don't spare any of the ugly details—even if you have to make things up. I'm not lying when I say we want to hear everything. I'm not kidding when I say there's nothing more fun than a victim.
You've been mistreated, you poor, bruised, sour-tempered pup. You've been done wrong. You've been fucked with. You've been kicked around. You've been hurt, and you continue to incubate and nurse that hurt as if it were the only significant thing that ever happened to you, almost as if there's NOTHING INTERESTING about you otherwise. But we all know that your victimization—which you can never stop thinking about or talking about or reliving in an endless loop being projected on the back of your sad little brain pain—is the ONLY thing which has kept you from becoming, say, an astronaut, or a Senator, or anything more than the insignificant, replaceable wage slave which you are and will continue to be until death or welfare, whichever comes first.
We all know that it isn't your awful personality, or your gasp-inducing stupidity, or your sluglike laziness, which set you up for victimization and has kept you down ever since. I mean, that's ABSURD. Let's just strike those possibilities from the record, OK?
It's all their fault, so don't ever blame yourself.
