short :: tinnient

.:. t.i. pendraig

In the spirit of adopting the indecorous, adroitly named manner of Fuck It Royal, I have presently endeavoured to rechristen those individuals who have justly roused my ire. Through deeds unspeakable, silence unshakeable, and blatant indelicacy have they earned titles more befitting each of their particular loathsome distinctions.

Indubitably, the dullard who discovers these my last words — most assuredly long past the terminal failing of my unremembered self — will be of the type who is characteristically incapable of ethics. Truly, who else would be brazen, or indeed unlucky enough to dig through the detritus which, in my lifetime, has proved to preserve such mordacious observations from prying eyes?

And though I would despair over such uncultured hands violating the privacy of my few, precious possessions, there is some measure of vindication to be had in knowing these words will reach the persons for whom they have been committed to the page.

Merely let it be said, and plainly for your benefit, that if you cannot comprehend the little I have thus far related, with what sparing wits you have, then best if you remove your person from my home. Let it be said further that if it is the case that you are too curious, too clever to heed such a plain warning, then quite rightly I leave you to your assuredly deserved fate.

Now as to those names…

To my mentor, my ally, my voice of reason when my own has fled me, I bequeath the title of Carcinogenic Cad. This title I hope you wear grudgingly, with little dignity, for it announces to the masses with thunderous pride your unyielding need to be correct, to have the last, ever helpful word, to twist the knife a little deeper as you guide your underlings with a carefully constructed hand. May the world acknowledge your unique qualities, and despise you for them.

To my partner in crime, sounding board, and occasional fuck, I bequeath the title Glorious Dickhead. Academic pursuits aside, you have never failed to inject your platitudinous thoughts into each and every conversation ever partaken in the late hours. Despite what I have said to the contrary, you are a remarkably poor lay in bed — and you’re worse in the shower. May the world someday disappoint you equally.

To my family by the asinine standards of law, I bequeath the overarching title of Defective Failure. Each of you is so indescribably foul that you could hardly manage to fail properly. May the world forget you.

To my students, my unwitting experiments, I bequeath the titles Overly Critical Disaster, The Hubris, Layabout Lapdog, Better Luck Next Time, Flicker and Flock, and last and most certainly least, Candy Dumbapples. You are all utterly regrettable, but to your meagre credit, you know how to fail properly. May the world accept your social dysfunctions for what they are.

Now, I would ungraciously demand that you the reader pass on these messages as printed to the poor, deprived souls for whom they are intended. I expect much traversing through muddied fields and dark, forsaken streets are to be in store; but have faith, discourteous looter, for the distances you travel have all the promise of offering you the slightest smidgen of integrity which you are desperately lacking.

After all, you are reading a dead man’s diary, are you not?