Why is it that others can say, be, or do something to you, but it’s appalling when it’s done back to them? When you flip the switch and play the game. Become them. It’s okay for you to tell me, my son with your finger in his face, that the world is better off without us, but when I say it back to you it’s offensive? It means something then, doesn’t it? It’s threatening. Paranoia is the reason that envelopes you to make it easier to murder. Is that the way it works? Your life is more worthy than mine? Ours? BOGO deal? You’re so smart … You disgust me.

Were you made king of it all as was twirling around in your chaos? I would say sleeping but I don’t do that. Safety isn’t a feeling with you in the world. Your prisoner, stalker, creeper, selfish, terror, entitled as fuck comes to mind. Is that why your head’s so heavy, Mr Man? Making me Mmmmmm. Writing and fantasizing about it all. I am the bad guy, after all. I am as you made me.