DEAR LAWD GAWD,
TONIGHT I WANNA SCREAM AT Y’ALL! WHY AM I STILL ALIVE? WHY PROLONG THE INEVITABLE? MUTHA FUCKA IS RANTING UP A STORM. DEADBEAT FART IS ANNOYING EVERYONE. AND WORK IS STILL BORING WITH A BUNCH OF CRAY-CRAYS.
ADMIT IT. Y’ALL CAN’T HEAL AMPUTEES OR GET RID OF THE PARANOID BIPOLAR SCHIZOPHRENIC LIVING NEXT DOOR TO US OR GIVE ME MY SILVER PLATTER OF CATNIP. AND I CAN’T EVEN GET A SMELLY OLD POOCH OF MY CHOICE!
FACE IT! AT THIS RATE, I EXPECT NOTHING LESS THAN TO BE TURNED INTO A DRIED PRUNE, ALL WRINKLY AND CANTANKEROUS! I MIGHT EVEN LODGE IN YOUR THROATS!
BETTER YET, SPACE DUST IS THE WAY TO GO! THAT WAY Y’ALL CAN INHALE MY GRITS, STRAIGHT INTO YOUR LUNGS LIKE CHEMTRAILS!
BUT I DIGRESS! I HOPE YOU HAVE ANOTHER HAPPY RESURRECTION. IT’S LIKE YOU NEVER GET ENOUGH OF COMING BACK TO HAUNT FROM THE GRAVE OR UFO OR WHEREVER YOU HAPPEN TO TRANSFIGURATE!
JUST DON’T SCARE ME AT NIGHT. I DON’T NEED THAT KIND OF JOKE FROM CREEPS LIKE YOU. AS A MATTER OF FACT, GO AWAY. KEEP YOUR SALVATION SCAM TO YOURSELF. YOU MESSED UP MY REALITIES.
WITH LOTS OF FUR BALLS,
EVIL KITTY
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