You know what? I'll tell ya.
FUCK YOU.
Yes, YOU, with your stupid fucking marathon runs for AIDS, or whatever. You're not doing it for the cause, you lying cunt—we all know the real reason. You want that all-important feeling of superiority.
We see it in your CrossFit updates on Facebook; the Instagram pics of your latest vegan cuisine conquest; your gym member t-shirt. The "tsk-tsk" you give the rest of us whenever you see the fast food wrappers on the passenger side floor of our cars. The repulsed expression on your face every time one of us farts. YOU aren't fooling ANYONE, fucker.
If I had a quarter for every time some smug hamster wheel jockey, fresh from some torrid affair with an exercise bike, had the audacity to tell me everything I'm doing wrong with my life, I'd make a dildo out of quarters and pistol-whip that sonofabitch.
Just go ahead, kill yourself.
That way, you can be sure you died young, and pretty, at your physical fucking peak, while the rest of us fall apart slowly from self-abuse with pizza while binge-watching marathons of Breaking Bad.
