Selected letters of The Narcissist
Notes from underground : Fyodora
Humility. Heh.. What is humility? I will tell you what humility is; it is a farce; it’s a mere sham dire farce. It’s a mask that these insufferable blockheads use in the most vain attempt to enshroud the height of their sanctimonious, and contemptuous Madame de Maintenon personas.
I do not believe in the appeal of what they call this “humble” behavior, this unadulterated “virgin” like behavior. I’d never dare to partake in any such behavior, and find it desperate, pathetic, and as inadequate upon frolicking with a virgin leading to an anticlimactic dismal affair.
I most certainly do not apprehend the intricacies of this behavior. Now coming from one who is adorned in the riches of excellence, and majestic qualities, a god like creature, remarkably resembling or personifying perfection. Yes, I just cannot fully ascertain or come to any conscious understanding of this “humble” behavior, or ailment.
Eh…tragic, grievous, unpleasant, distasteful behavior- I can’t help but utter under my breath, “It’s a disease. It’s an abomination.” As great displeasure I feel when attempting to understand it, I feel almost immeasurable pleasure watching these poor fools. They are promoting a grand amount of merriment and contentment as I watch their amusing jocular performances. I’d almost go as far as expressing my gratitude and applaud their efforts. However, I feel that may be somewhat amongst the realm of their afflictions, their disease. Could it be the mere thought of desire to express anything but pity and repugnance for these…pedestrians means that I am infected? Could it be by exposure to these little horrid, tiny tyrants running rampant amongst my streets breathing my air? Have I become infected? Is this a symptom? I fear this may be catching. No…No…I am far too supreme to be susceptible to this virus. I am almost stricken by the thought of questioning my own superior nature.
Why would anyone feel the need to hide their true praise and love for themselves? Is it to appease these sheep? What does their judgment amount to? Why does one need that sort of approval from these dunces? Amour-propre…Heh.
Why just the other day, one accosted me from just across the way; he had imposed questioning of where I purchased my scarf, and emphasized how beautiful the scarf was and how it brought out the shades of rich emerald green in my eyes. This I know; I know it is an exquisite scarf, for I have not worn it; I know my eyes are a creation of god, I am a creation of god, I am a gift from god to this world. What ails this person for they approach me with such questioning? How dare they waste my time. This is an everyday occurrence. This pedestrian calls himself Boris. Very seldom do I feel inadequate, however when I do, it’s amongst the greatest woeful and brutishly galling of all feelings. It’s as feral as a pigeon holding pearls, and as ailing as watching a birth, or giving birth to a primate, an unsightly, repugnant child. To have a beastly child is thought to be the absolute burden of all burdens, and highest tragedy of all tragedies. Nevertheless, it is throughout these moments that I crave the praise of those pedestrians, like Boris. However this inhabitant called “Boris” is pathetic. Every encounter becomes less gratifying, and his confessions are trite, displeasing…purely empty. Boris – “the windbag”.
It must be the streets; The overflow of pedestrians has caused this travesty. The streets have lost all appeal; The prestige, the luster, all disregarded and eroded by these pitiful bromides. How else could anyone slightly more dignified than a peasant hold anything but contempt for these streets. I will say I am foolish for expecting a new gem to walk these wretched streets to fuel my ego. I feel it is a time for change. I must part with these streets. I must travel to a more promising land.
©S. D’Giff 2013 Satirical Works