You should love yourself more. You should be kind and forgiving to yourself. You should practice self-love.
When people say this kind of platitudinous shit to me, I know they mean well, and I thank them for their kindness.
But in my head, I’m secretly just like nah, son. You don’t know this bitch.
One of the reasons I’m able to be as forward and honest and out there as I am is because I hate myself. Self hatred, you see, is my greatest asset and armor against the slings and arrows of outrageous trolling.
Nothing anyone can say to me (you’re a reprehensible cunt, you should never have been born, etc., etc.) could possibly be worse than my own self-criticism or is something I haven’t already considered.
It’s like, oh yeah?! Well guess what?! I already think I’m a stupid bitch who should have been aborted in 1977 so suck my dick because I thought of that shit 20 years ago you’re fucking TARDY TO THE SELF-HATRED PARTY!
When I mindfully check in with myself to practice self-care, I’m always just like WOW. What a fucking mess you are.
Your blood stream courses with Prozac, THC, and Cadbury Creme Eggs; you hide under your blankets whenever possible; and every moment your children are awake, fighting with each other, and disrespecting your authorit-AH is another notch in your epic life failure belt.
On the other hand, if I didn’t hate myself, I’d presumably give more fucks about the consequences of what I do and say on the interwebs, and while giving more fucks about myself could lead to self-love, more likely than not I’d be both bored and boring.
So if it’s all the same, I’ll confine my self-love to the dope AF Hitachi Magic Wand™️ and call it good.