Piranha on steroids, you eat your way through life. You are a hybrid made of eyes, a stomach, and a mouth. The world is food to you. You consume your way through time, increasingly expanding as the earth shrinks to meet your need to feed.
Once your gut is full, who wants to make an effort? Lie down and take a nap. You live on laziness, indifferent to the suffering of others, even that which you obliviously inflict. Once upon a yawn you used to care about the poor, the hungry, the sick. Now you’re just a shiftless prick. You can’t even remember your dreams, which entail sleeping.
A stirring in the loins that starts at the eyes, you rivet on the ones you desire. Insatiable whore and anagram of slut, you cultivate a narrow sensation of pleasure by manipulating the beauties you seek, growing bored, and moving on to conquer more. Like the other sins, you strive to destroy your host along with your victims. Your motto? Be fruitless and multiply.
With ego as your captain, your favorite word is “I.” You demand your rights, and yours alone, trampling everyone in your path, bursting into a tantrum at the merest provocation. You love having the power to crush the ones who don’t yield to your dictatorship, to obliterate them with expensive explosions and maniacal displays of self-righteousness. Yours is a terrifying state, an earthquake wrought of poison.
You always want what others have, no matter how rich you may be, or how blessed by nature’s bounty. You spring from an excess that feels like a deficit, a disease born of greed but also of need. You are the sick love-child of ingratitude and prejudice. Your imaginary want makes you judge that which is over there as better than your share. Acquisition only serves to augment you; you are a black hole that sucks up all you see with your mind.
Perhaps the deadliest of all, you spring from anger and fear, then set out to take what isn’t yours. As soon as it is, you take even more. You have a bottomless appetite, not only for money, but for prestige, land, meat, applause–anything that will reinforce your belief in your own project of self-aggrandizement. With others who share your twisted passion, you form a juggernaut of thugs and wrest control of the helm, aiming for the nearest iceberg you can find.
Look at you–aren’t you special? With your immaculate suntan and perfect gate of pristine teeth, you smile at yourself in the mirror of other people’s approving eyes. You are the entrepeneur who thinks he’s a self-made man, despite your contribution to the ongoing history of wage-slavery. You’re a talentless celebrity or a president who primps and preens, a shill who’s cleaned up after driving his company or country into the ground. The world will paint your portrait in blood and build a monument to you with the bones of those you’ve devoured in your solipsistic adventure, Project Me.