YOU know who you are.
I hate you. I hate you with all of my being and I hope you get castrated by raving cannibal monks who then proceed to choke you with your own scrotum.
We don’t talk anymore, and that’s fine with me. Actually, it isn’t, because the more I insult you the less I feel that you’re a parasite in a cesspool. I don’t like hating people. And I used to really, really like you.
But not anymore. I realized that you’re a manipulative, arrogant, compulsive lying bastard. You lied about speaking French, which was incredibly juvenile, btw. You lied about knocking a girl up. You lied about HOW THE FUCK YOUR PARENTS DIED. Jesus, just cut the “I’m such a lost poet boohoo” crap. When you finally hit adulthood, that will be a huge turnoff. Women will begin to see through you. You won’t be able to manipulate their insecurities to your advantage. You won’t be able to have your cake and eat it, too. Poor baby.
–You know who I am.