Because the swine had no right to live, that’s why. Anyone who continues to drive dribbling and sentimental nonsense he subscribed to, and God help me, had the audacity to believe in, deserves what he gets. No kidding, the man was a messiah’s apprentice. He meant the continual ‘sunshine,’ this and ‘sublime,’ that in the cards and sappy emails he created. I will bet you real money the man did not understand what sublime means or even heard of the word ironic. I can’t go on, I’ll pop a blood vessel. Maybe that will be better than the lethal injection they are sharpening up for me.
I understand his mother wants to watch me die. That will be the last insult if she tries to send me a message she’s praying for me. She should have reared a better son.
Frankly, justice should strap her down on the gurney and not me. Anyone who can unleash such a son onto the world. I hate to imagine the money he spent on handmade cards or the time he spent in sending out feel-good email messages. I bet you a dime to a dollar that all those sniveling sweethearts out there missing his ‘presence,’ and calling out for my blood didn’t even read his shit. I bet you it annoyed them just as much as me. I laugh, yes laugh thinking about all those blinking juvenile things digging through their spam mail and moving his poetry into files they are now saving for posterity’s sake. Well, let me tell you something, posterity for this generation will be a long boring slide show with sappy music–and it will be in hell.
I was his ‘project.’ He saw a fat, ponderous woman, square faced, with a bad complexion who didn’t fit into this generation’s all inclusive bullshit. What’s tragic about ‘the victim’ is that he didn’t fit in either. He saw all the doe-eyed girls as little angels who just didn’t know how to relate to someone like me. “Like me,” what a laugh. I am rude because I don’t approve of liars. I’ll take a bible thumbing holy roller before I take a bottled blonde who listens to indecipherable poetry with a little puckered frown and a ‘mmm hmm,’ acknowledgment. I don’t even bother to ask if they applauded when Bob Dylan won the Nobel Peace Prize because if they had brains enough to know who Bob Dylan is and even read some of his shit then try to convey his meaning to me I might be in line for more than one death sentence.
Am I sorry for what I did? No. No, I’m not sorry. What about his mother? What the hell was she doing raising a sap like that? The only thing I can say about her is that she raised him to appreciate handmade cards rather than mind numbing syrup that Hallmark pumps out. I can appreciate the history of arts and crafts, even upcycling, but I can’t stomach a self-effacing, self-deceived pretender. The person who quietly goes about his business in a way that trumpets his good works. Beyond a doubt he wanted to live as an example by manipulating some poor sidelined wall flower like me. Well, he picked the wrong one. No, I did this world a favor. A favor.
