I was sitting there tonight, on that perch that was placed right under me in the manner that it usually is.  You know the routine, the whole bit.  Don't deny it.  You've put me here.  Your name calling's.  Your tossing faggot my way.  It's that perch that puts me ten feet below you.

You should come down here though.  Faggot is just the overcompensation of society.  You'd like it.  No one's dirty.  No one's gross.  No one is anything.  Just ant's marching in there expensive mall-pressed uniforms onward to that great thing that we're all supposed to be searching for.  And then....

In the next raspy breath, you say, "It's all about growing up."  As if it's really consolation for some shitty that's been happening.  Although it may be brown.  It doesn't necessarily mean it's shit.  And then you decide to nudge those glasses back up on the bridge of your nose.  Just so you could judge a little better.  Just send judgement my way.  Prissy bitch.  All your tormentation is just a direct result of that daddy/daughter complex you pull off each night with that fourteen year old pink pantied bitch.

And with that, content, as usual, spry little smile and all; you head off towards that proverbial sunset of rape, inscest and abuse, that you, oh sacred one, so dearly love.
 

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