katy colaizzo

In the wee hours of the morning, while Joe Biden was likely sleeping soundly in the White House, a drug-addled septuagenarian heap of Diet Coke, hamberder grease, spray tan and sociopathy sat alone in his gilded golf motel rage-posting on his failing social media app about a swanky, celebrity-filled, black-tie dinner in Washington D.C. which he did not attend and likely was not invited to. Clinging to his phone for dear life with his wee-lil hands, watching the clips over and over again, the mocking laughter of a roomful of famous and fabulous people he shall forever rue for refusing to capitulate to his awfulness, battering and bruising his eggshell-fragile ego on a never-ending loop. Unable to bear the humiliation of being the butt of their jokes and the object of their scorn, he retreated to the usual sanctuary of his digital realm to lash out in a desperate attempt to regain a semblance of control. With each keystroke of his fun-sized fingers, his rage burned hotter and hotter, as his addlepated mind was pounded over and over again by a deluge of simultaneous self-pity, self-righteousness and self-loathing. In his twisted reality, he was a martyr, the righteous avenger striking back against the injustice of his perceived persecution. Desperate for validation and vindication from the invisible audience of his faceless, faithful worshippers, he hammered the ALL CAPS keys demanding adulation and adoration even in the depths of his despair. Alone in his room, a laughingstock and a loser, illuminated by the glow of his safe-space smartphone as he angrily tapped away, tortured by collective ridicule, consumed by fury and desperate for the revenge he knew deep down, he will never, ever have. Sad.