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Fucked Up College Kids File 398
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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spew
----
go ahead. piss me off. it doesn't matter in this world of
pig swill and monkey shit. people like to fuck with me, and
i admit that i am used to it, so i let them. and then i
end up in the state i am in now, the thought of a slick
shiny razor in my hand, and the feeling of a cool-clean
slice through the soft flesh of my arm. the rage is
building, and there is no outlet.
i am drunk and hateful. i called up the man i love and told
him all the things that i hate about him. i want to fuck
someone and hurt them, love them and leave them. i want to
tell someone that they aren't deserving of the oxygen that
flows in their blood. i want to kick a puppy and listen to
it yelp. i want to snap the neck of a cat and see the bone
extrude from its neck. i want to break shit, fuck shit up,
steal, lie, cheat, hate.
instead i sit here. i sit here with wine and a keyboard
(don't try this at home kids!) wanting to beat myself up for
the inconsiderate bullshit of others. i watch tears hit the
'Q' key and i smile, thinking of the years of smeared ink
on paper that has been my life. i have hundreds of pages
full of emptiness, and i want to hurt people for what has
been done to me.
i love you, he lied. they all do. stream of consciousness
bullshit think i am an artist crap. this is what fuck is
about, the raw hatred you feel when you see a 10 gallon
hat and shiny rattlesnake boots connected to a beautiful
woman that you want to love forever. all i want is to
kiss the eyes of someone who has never known tenderness,
make love to someone who has never known love, say a kind
word to someone who needs to hear it.. and i am rewarded
with coldness, ignorance, and stupidity.
fuck all of them. the world isn't worth the ton of pain
on the shoulders of each one of us. hatred is my new
game, and the heat of the sun can never match the
flame of my wrath. i hate everyone now, because no one
wants to do for me what i want to do for them. martyrdom
grows tired at dawn.
it is cold in here, where my soul lives. i beg silently
for someone to caress the worn places. fuck life, fuck
love. it doesn't exist. coldness is where it's at,
and love is game you play so that an orgasm isn't friends
with Guilt. you could say i am bitter, but the truth is
that i am an angel who has been torn with the whip of
hatred one time too often.
i don't know what all of this means. all i know is that
in the face of my ex-lovers i see the grim reaper, and
that in the mirror all i can find is a worn tiredness
that doesn't belong in the eyes of a 22 year old woman.
i want someone to love my complexity, find beauty in
my pain. but they all want to eradicate the infection,
and i sit here alone, alone, forever alone, and i just
want to hurt them all.
tears find a home in my soul.
fuck you.
demonika
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