“Nice people don’t swear”. I don’t give a fucking fuck. I’m not nice. I am real.

I hated hypocrisy just as much as I hated Metro Art, an overly orchestrated facade to hide the rut behind it. Just like a botox faced matron, or an overly done teenager trying desperately to hide imperfections.

Nice people go to church everyday. Then they go home and give a blow job, behind close doors of course, because the meaning of decency had long morphed into something superficial. A thing to wear on the outside, while the inside reek with foul indiscretion and malignant hate.

Nice people have nice friends, who also have nice friends, from nice families, with well scrubbed, finely dressed, and well behaved kids, and yes, with supportive, “ nice” spouses. Miss one and you are out of the nice people’s league.

Nice people don’t have tattoos on them, don’t smoke, don’t go to therapies, don’t take Prozac, Lexapro or Rivotril. They sleep well at night, don’t get nightmares, are not seized by gripping fear. They do not stay awake all night listening to the blackness wail. They look up and see stars, not a crashing, burning sky.

Nice people walk life relying solely on the goodness of the universe, with faith, hope and glee, worn brilliantly on their sleeves, without the need of a crudely drawn map, on bleeding skin.

I am not nice, and because of that I see an unfiltered world, unmade, scarred, bleeding and in pain. I see what the “nice people” choose not to see, and I do not feel the least bit ungrateful, just honest. I see imperfections amidst the facade of colours and forced glee. I see reality.

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