I should press rape charges

I hate when people bother me with stuff I don’t care about.

“Guess what I did today?” I don’t care. “I went to the store, and I-” I DON’T FUCKING CARE. You’re raping not only my ears, but my brain. If unwanted sexual penetration can be defined as rape, why can’t unwanted audible penetration be defined as rape? When someone is doing this to you:

What they’re really doing to you is this:

That’s gonna hurt.

The only way I could be any more obvious about not wanting to hear your drivel is if I told you to fuck off. It’s either “Oh, well I guess you don’t care” or “DON’T BE SUCH AN INSENSITIVE JERK!” It’s a catch-22. I’m fucked if I’m polite, and fucked if I’m an asshole. I’m left with no choice other than to listen to people tell me shit I don’t care about then get yelled at for not giving them the proper response. I may be a fair actor, but for the life of me I can’t pretend to care about how feeble-minded my peers are, how bad peoples’ relationships are, or how traumatic others lives are. It doesn’t help when you call me at 4:30 in the fucking morning to cry to me about how you got into a fight with your family. It also doesn’t help when you disrespect my girlfriend, then a week later turn around and ask me if you can borrow money. And now you wonder why I’m ignoring you. Why should I pretend to care about others’ problems?

Ear rape isn’t limited to someone telling you something you don’t care about. It can also include being subjected to music you don’t want to listen to. It’s time I admit it. I AM A RAPE VICTIM. The culprit was none other than Katy Perry. What you are about to read is the true story of how I was violated, how I was raped. It may be disturbing to some. Please excuse any incoherency, as I’m still very much traumatized by this experience. My psychologist told me that writing is therapeutic and will aid in the recovery process. I don’t think I will ever be the same again thanks to the scars inflicted upon me by the portrayed events. May such a cruel and painful ordeal never happen to any of you.

The kid was in her room with her friend listening to her iPod with an iPod Radio (where you plug in the iPod and can use its musical selection to annoy those around you), when the song “Hot and Cold” came on. It came on strong, putting its arm around me and asking me if I wanted a drink. I declined its advances, and instead put my headphones on to listen to “Cult of Personality” on my YouTube playlist. It wasn’t pleased that I turned it down and asserted itself more vigorously, raising its tone. I continued to decline the pushy advances by turning up the volume on my laptop. Suddenly, I felt the song’s firm grip upon me, and the protection of my earphones being penetrated by the sheer fortitude of Katy Perry’s voice being blasted from the iPod Radio’s speakers. I begged for it to stop, in the vain hope that it would cease its advances by my mere pleading. It continued to aggressively force its way into my ears, causing profuse pain. “Stop, please!” I cried in anguish. But Katy Perry’s voice grew even louder, as if to taunt me further. Finally, I lost all the fight I had and allowed it to have its way.

After the ordeal was over, I went into the bathroom and cried my eyes out. I felt like a whore, a filthy tramp who had been had by all of the trendy songs glamorized on MTV. I felt as though I was left with only one option: turning to a life of drugs, alcohol, and promiscuity to fill the void left in my soul by the traumatic experience.

Then another thought crossed my mind. No, surely I could not resort to such drastic measures. It is the one sure way to end your pain, AJ, the shattered self-image within myself said. As I picked up the razor blade, I asked myself “Will they miss me?” Nobody’s gonna miss a used up dirty whore, my obliterated self-image responded. It was settled. I took the razor blade and began to trace the veins in my wrist, practicing my maneuvers first. “It is time,” I said to myself. “It is time to end this misery, this pain.” Time to rid the world of one more whore, my self-image taunted. As I felt the sharpness of the razor begin to make contact with my flesh, I was stopped by another voice. AJ, I am your Logic and Common Sense, it said. “Wha-what d-do you w-w-want?” I asked, trying to control my sobbing. You must not kill yourself, AJ, it said to me, For if you do, they will win. “Wh-who?” I asked, still fighting to restrain my sobbing. “Who will w-w-win?” The music industry. They fear those who take a stand against their forceful ways. “B-b-but, I couldn’t f-fight them off before!” I contested distraughtly. You may not have the power to take on the music industry by yourself, my Logic and Common Sense replied soothingly, But you are not alone. “What am I doing?” I asked myself. “I can’t take my own life!” I picked up my copy of “Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables” and raised it high. “With this CD, I shall take a stand against the pain and suffering inflicted upon the victims of the music industry! I am AJ, hear me roar!” I then set out to seek others who had experienced the forcefulness of today’s music, armed with the power of good, anti-corporate music.

Months later, I saw my attacker on television:

Come to think of it, I wish that I really was violated by Katy Perry. It wouldn’t even be rape. I would rail that bitch all day every day for a fucking month straight, stopping for nothing or no one.

I’m going to go rub one out now. Ta.