Wednesday, 5 August 2015
I thought I'd punch them in the head. I thought I'd punch them until they bled. Until eventually they were dead, and I felt good inside instead of this morbid scratching ulcer that has spread itself along the lining of my guts. I'd spread myself thin with a series of tiny little cuts, as life pulled away my caring outlook with a constant barrage of cunts. What's in it for me, you runts? You squeal and beg and demand from me an increasingly difficult series of stunts. Jump through the hoop and take a punt on health insurance for once - it covers rectal shunts and cancers of the morbidly obese cunt. I looked at today's fifteenth PDS, under extreme duress, and now, thanks to you, I'm far too angry to be depressed.