Baminman
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| Joined: 05 Jan 2011 |
| Total Posts: 70 |
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| 19 Jan 2013 05:48 PM |
You revolting, miserable excuse for a human being. Yes, I'm talking to you. You jaundiced jumped up, vercordiously pusillanimous piffle. I'm sorry if this letter appears to ramble. To make a cogent case as to why you are so repulsive presupposes some master design on your part, some inkling of purpose, some evil intent. And yet clearly, you have as much intent, as much purpose, as much reason for being, as a peanut.
'Hate' implies some sort of interaction between the subject and object. I suspect it's a word I cannot use in your context. Can one hate an inanimate object, a vacuum, a nothing? If indeed that is possible, then yes, I suppose I hate you. I certainly loathe and detest you. What in God's name gives you any suggestion that you have any right to even exist? You are a surgeon's dream: spineless, gutless and with an interchangeable posterior and head. You still don't understand do you?
You are halfway through reading this letter and you don't understand. You are loathsome, and it beggars reason as to why you insist on being. A slime mold has more empathy for others than you. All this, perhaps, would not be so damningly despairing were it not for the fact that I know what you do after you have picked your nose. Perhaps the less said the better, as other people, who still might have hope, could someday read this inadvertently.
Have you ever thought of what your funeral will be like? Have you ever seen someone spray cockroaches with insecticide then brush them into a garbage-bag? The only difference I guess, is that in your case more than one can of insecticide would be used. If everything in this world has some purpose, some grand plan behind its existence, then yours surely is to show everything else, whether it be a slops bucket in a fried chicken stand, or the gunk behind the fridge, how fortunate it is not to be you. By now, no doubt, you will have dribbled on this epistle. Your bug eyes will be swimming incomprehensively in their sockets. O God, you are so stupid…You revolting, miserable excuse for a human being. Yes, I'm talking to you. You jaundiced jumped up, vercordiously pusillanimous piffle. I'm sorry if this letter appears to ramble. To make a cogent case as to why you are so repulsive presupposes some master design on your part, some inkling of purpose, some evil intent. And yet clearly, you have as much intent, as much purpose, as much reason for being, as a peanut.
'Hate' implies some sort of interaction between the subject and object. I suspect it's a word I cannot use in your context. Can one hate an inanimate object, a vacuum, a nothing? If indeed that is possible, then yes, I suppose I hate you. I certainly loathe and detest you. What in God's name gives you any suggestion that you have any right to even exist? You are a surgeon's dream: spineless, gutless and with an interchangeable posterior and head. You still don't understand do you?
You are halfway through reading this letter and you don't understand. You are loathsome, and it beggars reason as to why you insist on being. A slime mold has more empathy for others than you. All this, perhaps, would not be so damningly despairing were it not for the fact that I know what you do after you have picked your nose. Perhaps the less said the better, as other people, who still might have hope, could someday read this inadvertently.
Have you ever thought of what your funeral will be like? Have you ever seen someone spray cockroaches with insecticide then brush them into a garbage-bag? The only difference I guess, is that in your case more than one can of insecticide would be used. If everything in this world has some purpose, some grand plan behind its existence, then yours surely is to show everything else, whether it be a slops bucket in a fried chicken stand, or the gunk behind the fridge, how fortunate it is not to be you. By now, no doubt, you will have dribbled on this epistle. Your bug eyes will be swimming incomprehensively in their sockets. O God, you are so stupid…You revolting, miserable excuse for a human being. Yes, I'm talking to you. You jaundiced jumped up, vercordiously pusillanimous piffle. I'm sorry if this letter appears to ramble. To make a cogent case as to why you are so repulsive presupposes some master design on your part, some inkling of purpose, some evil intent. And yet clearly, you have as much intent, as much purpose, as much reason for being, as a peanut.
'Hate' implies some sort of interaction between the subject and object. I suspect it's a word I cannot use in your context. Can one hate an inanimate object, a vacuum, a nothing? If indeed that is possible, then yes, I suppose I hate you. I certainly loathe and detest you. What in God's name gives you any suggestion that you have any right to even exist? You are a surgeon's dream: spineless, gutless and with an interchangeable posterior and head. You still don't understand do you?
You are halfway through reading this letter and you don't understand. You are loathsome, and it beggars reason as to why you insist on being. A slime mold has more empathy for others than you. All this, perhaps, would not be so damningly despairing were it not for the fact that I know what you do after you have picked your nose. Perhaps the less said the better, as other people, who still might have hope, could someday read this inadvertently.
Have you ever thought of what your funeral will be like? Have you ever seen someone spray cockroaches with insecticide then brush them into a garbage-bag? The only difference I guess, is that in your case more than one can of insecticide would be used. If everything in this world has some purpose, some grand plan behind its existence, then yours surely is to show everything else, whether it be a slops bucket in a fried chicken stand, or the gunk behind the fridge, how fortunate it is not to be you. By now, no doubt, you will have dribbled on this epistle. Your bug eyes will be swimming incomprehensively in their sockets. O God, you are so stupid…You revolting, miserable excuse for a human being. Yes, I'm talking to you. You jaundiced jumped up, vercordiously pusillanimous piffle. I'm sorry if this letter appears to ramble. To make a cogent case as to why you are so repulsive presupposes some master design on your part, some inkling of purpose, some evil intent. And yet clearly, you have as much intent, as much purpose, as much reason for being, as a peanut.
'Hate' implies some sort of interaction between the subject and object. I suspect it's a word I cannot use in your context. Can one hate an inanimate object, a vacuum, a nothing? If indeed that is possible, then yes, I suppose I hate you. I certainly loathe and detest you. What in God's name gives you any suggestion that you have any right to even exist? You are a surgeon's dream: spineless, gutless and with an interchangeable posterior and head. You still don't understand do you?
You are halfway through reading this letter and you don't understand. You are loathsome, and it beggars reason as to why you insist on being. A slime mold has more empathy for others than you. All this, perhaps, would not be so damningly despairing were it not for the fact that I know what you do after you have picked your nose. Perhaps the less said the better, as other people, who still might have hope, could someday read this inadvertently.
Have you ever thought of what your funeral will be like? Have you ever seen someone spray cockroaches with insecticide then brush them into a garbage-bag? The only difference I guess, is that in your case more than one can of insecticide would be used. If everything in this world has some purpose, some grand plan behind its existence, then yours surely is to show everything else, whether it be a slops bucket in a fried chicken stand, or the gunk behind the fridge, how fortunate it is not to be you. By now, no doubt, you will have dribbled on this epistle. Your bug eyes will be swimming incomprehensively in their sockets. O God, you are so stupid…You revolting, miserable excuse for a human being. Yes, I'm talking to you. You jaundiced jumped up, vercordiously pusillanimous piffle. I'm sorry if this letter appears to ramble. To make a cogent case as to why you are so repulsive presupposes some master design on your part, some inkling of purpose, some evil intent. And yet clearly, you have as much intent, as much purpose, as much reason for being, as a peanut.
'Hate' implies some sort of interaction between the subject and object. I suspect it's a word I cannot use in your context. Can one hate an inanimate object, a vacuum, a nothing? If indeed that is possible, then yes, I suppose I hate you. I certainly loathe and detest you. What in God's name gives you any suggestion that you have any right to even exist? You are a surgeon's dream: spineless, gutless and with an interchangeable posterior and head. You still don't understand do you?
You are halfway through reading this letter and you don't understand. You are loathsome, and it beggars reason as to why you insist on being. A slime mold has more empathy for others than you. All this, perhaps, would not be so damningly despairing were it not for the fact that I know what you do after you have picked your nose. Perhaps the less said the better, as other people, who still might have hope, could someday read this inadvertently.
Have you ever thought of what your funeral will be like? Have you ever seen someone spray cockroaches with insecticide then brush them into a garbage-bag? The only difference I guess, is that in your case more than one can of insecticide would be used. If everything in this world has some purpose, some grand plan behind its existence, then yours surely is to show everything else, whether it be a slops bucket in a fried chicken stand, or the gunk behind the fridge, how fortunate it is not to be you. By now, no doubt, you will have dribbled on this epistle. Your bug eyes will be swimming incomprehensively in their sockets. O God, you are so stupid…You revolting, miserable excuse for a human being. Yes, I'm talking to you. You jaundiced jumped up, vercordiously pusillanimous piffle. I'm sorry if this letter appears to ramble. To make a cogent case as to why you are so repulsive presupposes some master design on your part, some inkling of purpose, some evil intent. And yet clearly, you have as much intent, as much purpose, as much reason for being, as a peanut.
'Hate' implies some sort of interaction between the subject and object. I suspect it's a word I cannot use in your context. Can one hate an inanimate object, a vacuum, a nothing? If indeed that is possible, then yes, I suppose I hate you. I certainly loathe and detest you. What in God's name gives you any suggestion that you have any right to even exist? You are a surgeon's dream: spineless, gutless and with an interchangeable posterior and head. You still don't understand do you?
You are halfway through reading this letter and you don't understand. You are loathsome, and it beggars reason as to why you insist on being. A slime mold has more empathy for others than you. All this, perhaps, would not be so damningly despairing were it not for the fact that I know what you do after you have picked your nose. Perhaps the less said the better, as other people, who still might have hope, could someday read this inadvertently.
Have you ever thought of what your funeral will be like? Have you ever seen someone spray cockroaches with insecticide then brush them into a garbage-bag? The only difference I guess, is that in your case more than one can of insecticide would be used. If everything in this world has some purpose, some grand plan behind its existence, then yours surely is to show everything else, whether it be a slops bucket in a fried chicken stand, or the gunk behind the fridge, how fortunate it is not to be you. By now, no doubt, you will have dribbled on this epistle. Your bug eyes will be swimming incomprehensively in their sockets. O God, you are so stupid… |
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