Your Eyes Are Mine For The Raping

This is one of the more literal posts which surface on this blog - now, before I get vigilantes and assumptions, let me state for the record - ninety-nine out of a hundred of you are going to be flat-out wrong. The one who is accurate will be told they are wrong as well. So spare me ludicrous guesses and the ties to reality - it's precisely that puerility that makes me think about creating this as a private affair.

To those who this is anonymously filed under and to - have you no shame? Have you no worry of a karmic comet striking your hubris-heavy air-filled head? Do you neither vomit nor laugh at the words you let slip out of your anus-like lips?

I see and I crave murder. The non-lymbic parts of my brain know this is a solution you would employ, one which I should surely avoid, catharsis and immense gratification aside. I want to run into you once more, if only to spit at you. (The delicious delicacy of the distinct Vous and Tu escape my English expression) You are a wellspring of eternal laughter, and none of it comes from you. You forget the scars you made on me, others willingly lending a hand or looking the other way.

You're so vain you probably think this is about you.

The world is not so small, nor has heliocentrism stopped to be the working model of our ugly inbred solar system. Don't flatter yourself.

-M