Your mom’s cootch.
I am, of course--in an emotional sense--utterly
beyond devastated at this point, and wonder what might have gotten your goat to such a degree that your loathing has spilled out into such flagrant displays of seemingly random peacockism.
Art transmits something absurd, like: "this is actually the first time he's ever been this badly beaten," but I simply don't find that to be a plausible transmission. Maybe it's just the first time he's been allowed to know about, but in my imagination, he was quite serious.
God, I just had a crazy thought: maybe you
actually bored him to death. That shit happens. What other option did he have, in order to never have to deal with your tedious shit again? Not having any way to follow up on this intuitive leap, I'll just encourage you to speculate about it on your own, or with whichever obsequious lickspittle toady happens to be in your favor at this point by now. (I bet they don't even know, when you decide that they're your new favorite, do they? You just start yelling at them more, and that's probably enough for both of you. Ye gods.)
It was a Mockingbird op to keep the riff raff like you distracted entertained.
I suppose my psych profile lead someone to believe that my craving for attention and societal acceptance was an appropriate weakness to exploit? In truth, no, not really, not at all.
the riff raff like you
There are no other riff raff like me. One wishes the same could be said about you. See you in 90 days. Don't rush on my account, this is your time to shine--you should totally make the most of it.
Speaking of which, I love that you know exactly what I'm talking about here--and no one else does, or likely--will even bother to read it. So it's very much the wise play on your part to front that "Jackstar can't write a coherent post."
Until I start doing so.
Peace.