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January 4, 2005
Fuck THIS!
Why the fuck is my entire life the scrambled repetition of a single action.
Why is it that I have a supreme ability to fuck up anything that is even vaguely unclear.
Why is it that people always read what they want to read.
FUCK this, I am done, done telling people pretty things because I feel that I might have a snowballs chance in hell at warming this cold stone that is my heart.
Why is it that I am forever coming back to this cold lonely road
upon which I meet so many little specters and nymphs who want to seduce me just far enough
to eat the heart from my chest as a lie prone on the floor helpless as their bloody teeth grin at me.
FUCK this! FUCK THIS.
I am tired of trusting.
I am tired of saying to my self, "what are the odds this is going to happen to me again."
It has to be like getting struck by lighting in some regard. Much to my dismay I am only fooling myself, again and again I watch some hollow eyed ghoul tear apart my chest, snap open my ribs like a fucking can of Pringles and keep munching away at the tenderized tissue beneath it.
FUCK THIS!
So quoth Strange at 20:17 UTC
BITTER traces
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