Oooh.

DEAR DARLA, I HATE YOUR STINKING GUTS. YOU MAKE ME VOMIT. YOU’RE THE SCUM BETWEEN MY TOES! LOVE, ALFALFA.

Did the screw from your head travel all the way to your heart to make you look and act that way? Tell me. Why, of all things imaginable, are you doing the unexpected extremities? If you think you can get away from who you really are, and if you succeed, then we should all do the same thing. When that happens, my next door neighbor would be Neptune. Hello, Pluto.

Maybe I should change my major. Psychology perhaps? At least from a better theoretical point of view, you won’t be mistaken for a schizo. Hmm or I can shift to animation? Then I’d draw a cartoon that’s more real than you are, and people might start believing.

Let’s get naked. Body is art. Don’t waste it; don’t cover it up with lies. Don’t inject pigments that will brand you as something you are not. I hate to break it to you, but there will come a point when innocents will perish in your landslide of trash talk.

Oh wait. It doesn’t matter, just like you. Good job. Good night.

So tell me, who are you, really?

//edit.

Okay this is the last time I’m going to think about the existence of that certain granule that kept on pestering me. I’ll leave you to live like you never did. But please tell me, WHY? Goodbye and goodnight.

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