Hey, Fuck You

If you were a colony of maggots in the shape of a man fist-fucking Glen Beck you couldn't be more putrid to my eyes. No more obscene. If you were bleeding out onto the sidewalk, I'd be more upset at the stains on the concrete. If you were beaten and raped and left to die, I'd applaud the faceless men that so abused you, but I'd hunt and kill them for failing to finish the job. You're less than a child, you're less than an insect. You're fetid meat rotting in a cesspool. You're a pile of shit no one cared enough about to flush.

You fucking touch me, I will rip you apart. I'll reach in and take a bite out of that shit you call a heart. I'd rather grab you by the teeth and smash your balls into your lungs than listen to another second of your mindless, trivial worries. I'd rather gut myself with a melon baller than spend another second breathing the same air as something so utterly, impotently worthless as you. You make the worst pedophiles cringe and cover their asses for fear of the greasy, clouded pile of gutter trash walking past might somehow creep inside them.

If you were on fire, I'd shoot you in the balls. That isn't a metaphor, that isn't a clever way of saying I wouldn't piss on you to put you out. I would literally shoot you in the balls because it is the only way I can think to make watching you suffer and die anymore pleasant. Seriously.

My point here, is that I can't wait. I can't wait for you to straighten up your spine and go toe-to-toe with me. You have never, in your wildest imagination, been able to conjure up what I will do to you. I'll tear your limbs off with no more effort than pulling off spider legs, and fill the wounds with razor blades and chlorine. When I've finished ripping you to pieces, the shreds that remain will be so far beyond the sensation of pain, beyond recognition as having once been human, that you won't even remember how to beg for death.

In other words, you are nothing next to me. For all your piss-poor competition and all your mediocre acheivements, you're still a pathetic excuse for a roach buried in a pile of shit.

Whenever you're ready, asshole.

-S.R.