I may not be proud of it, but I take responsibility for it. And that’s all I have for you, do what you want with it, because I’d die before I apologize.
I will not utter that awful word.
I refuse to apologize under literally any circumstance. Because as a child, I was repeatedly forced to apologize when I wasn’t even sorry. So for me it’s about principle. The truth is, I professed a lot of insincere apologies as a young man, and it hardened me to the point of adopting a preference for honesty.
You want me to say the S word? Not happening. I’ll admit to being wrong, but will never apologize. It’s unjustifiable as far as I’m concerned. In my opinion, the apology is a ritualized form of humiliation. If we both already know I fucked up, why do I have to prostrate myself before you like a sinner at confession? How is the mutual understanding that I made a mistake not enough? What type of ego trip is this process?
There’s such a thing as a sore acceptor of apologies, the type who enjoys rubbing it in your face because they secretly get off on it. You walk up to the offended one, thoroughly embarrassed and ready to get it over with.
“Hey.” you mutter.
“Hey.” They echo your greeting without an inkling of human emotion, using the opportunity to cross their arms and stare at you. But they can’t even give you the proper chance to do the unthinkable. Instead of graciously allowing the offender to say his piece, they chime in expectantly. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?” they ask, flashing goofy bug eyes.
“Ugh, yeah. Wanted to ugh, say sorry.” you fulfil the bare minimum requirements for an apology, despite the feeling no longer being there since they put you on the spot and ruined the moment. But they aren’t finished yet!
“Aren’t you going to say what you’re apologizing for?” someone donning this level of audacity will be slapped. I'll lose my shit just for fun, bailing out of the apology process entirely. This question is a deal breaker that forces me to one up the action I was initially apologizing for.
This line of questioning is exactly akin to elementary level Math class, when a wench babysitter claiming the title of educator would enthusiastically mark your correct answer as wrong because you “didn’t label”. Even on a functionally retarded American education system question like, “There are five apples in a tree, three apples fall off the tree. How many apples are left in the tree?”
“Wrong. The answer is two apples.” Fine. You’re the teacher and I can’t control you. Your perception of the accuracy of my thought process means less than nothing to me. Fuck you and your mother. And if the whore’s dead, fuck her twice.
And don’t you dare ask me to apologize!