There is little in the world that annoys me, crushes any sense of accomplishment, or brings on the waves of crippling depression and paralyzing rage than a cheater.
The definition of a “cheater” is pretty broad in my head, I suppose. Maybe I shouldn’t let it get to me. But basically, I count anyone who abuses a system, who breaks the rules or a system, or who warps the rules and definitions of a system so they can claim to “win” – especially at the expense of others and/or myself – as a cheater. Also included are people who want to brag about being #1 at something when they’ve so mutilated the criteria that there’s really no one else running.
That includes people with aimbots or lagbots, or folks who are using party chat to rig a match in an online game. That includes people who want to brag and ram it down your throat that they’re the #1 bestseller in the nonbinary lesbian moongender vampwolf otherkin comedy romance thriller genre on Amazon (and the inverse; “I’m looking for manuscripts, but only if nonbinary lesbian moongender vampwolves are doing the submissions.”) That includes all the self-diagnosed “neurodivergent” people who treat mental illness as a badge of honor and use it as a free ticket to get out of trouble or claim special treatment. That includes the folks who claim disability and receive benefits (usually for nebulous conditions like a “bad back”) who then spend their days jogging around the neighborhood and working on cars for cash under the table. This includes people who, despite living in a supposedly non-smoking complex (and being quick to report you if they saw you using a vape device without having gone past the imaginary sidewalk line) spend most of their time spewing so much pot smoke that it leaks under the door of neighboring apartments, and somehow are immune to punishment. This includes people who claim nonexistent (or, as I call it, “conveniently existent”) disabilities or gender identities to use them as bludgeons against others, excusing everything from frivolous lawsuits to pedophilia and perjury.
It’s a long list. And it’s the sort of thing that’s always made me furious. I remember being in the first or second grade, one of the students – and notorious bully by virtue of his height and girth – was trotting around the schoolyard claiming to be the “King of Grades.” Yes, it’s stupid. But it still enraged me, especially because I knew it to be false; you don’t get consistently held back to finish homework or repeat quizzes if you’re doing well. I remember getting myself landed in detention because I ended that discussion by hysterically shouting random questions at him, trying to “prove” he was lying by catching him in a wrong answer. “What’s a bicuspid?” That was the last one I recall.
Yeah, I’m nuts. I know it. “Don’t let it get to you,” most people would say, or more colloquially, “Don’t let the bastards get you down.” It’s born of a seething inferiority complex that’s compounded by an inability to feel any sort of pride my own accomplishments or having that pride ripped away, shat on, or belittled by those around me (or, in today’s lovely environment, being told that pride is somehow “problematic.”)
Still, rage-inducing. Promoting me to stare at the sharp objects far too often. Liable to force me to submerge and pretend I don’t exist again or make me throw my hands up in the air and stop taking my meds or even trying.
Not a happy post today. Sorry, folks.
Insomniac Nightmares 
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