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How Dare You Come Into My House and Trigger Me With a Compliment

“Nice place?” What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I live in a one-bedroom basement apartment with minimal natural light, you condescending asshole. Who the hell do you think you are? I invited you into my home. How dare you fucking trigger me with a compliment?!

You think just because your fancy job pays you more in a month than I make in a year, and because you live in a place above ground with more natural light than God would know what to do with, that makes you better than me? Well, it does. But you don’t see me going around making you feel bad about being successful, you fucking prick. Am I a fucking charity case to you? You probably only hang out with me to write it off on your taxes. I’m more of a deductible than a friend. Is that it?

I bet you didn’t even really think that joke I told six weeks ago at IHOP was funny. After the waiter dropped the butter on the floor and I said, “Butter luck next time!” You laughed so fucking hard but it was probably just to be nice because you think I’m a pathetic loser. Admit it. You never thought I was funny. I can’t believe I thought you were my fucking friend. This explains why you asked me to be the best man at your wedding and the fucking godfather to your daughter. I’m just one big hilarious joke to you.

And to think I really appreciated you washing all the dishes after dinner tonight. It was all just another way for you to validate your belief that I’m a helpless piece of shit who would fall apart without you. Well not anymore. You can take back the $300 dollar Visa gift card you gave me for my birthday and your invitation to fly to South Africa on your company’s private jet. I don’t need you or your backhanded fucking compliments. Get the fuck out of my house and take my name off your HBO Max account. I never want to see or hear from you ever again!