I hate you and your big fat, toothy mouth. Every time you heave that trap open, your annoying voice resonates through that cavernous cake chute of yours and rattles my head ceaselessly, continually, infuriatingly. Yap. YAP! All day with the yapping! You call me forty times a day...YAP. You call me forty times a night. YAP. You start fights you can't win because you're a pity-mining shit goblin, and I fantasize about grabbing a Nerf football and cramming it in your yaphole. Then, I'd take a broom handle and cram it down even further. Then, I imagine just going nuts, jobbing that Nerf as far down your poison craw as it'll go, working that broom handle like I'm in a butter-churning contest, feet not even touching the floor, like a pissed-off Yosemite Sam plunging a toilet. You're hyper-religious, yet hypocritical...a manipulative, gossipy, name-dropping ass maggot who attaches yourself to people in positions of power or who have some degree of celebrity, and then caws their names out to all who will hear. You allude to string-pulling of the highest degree, to fabulously high-up connections that anyone not four can tell are a huge load of steaming bullhockey, and you even go so far as to make veiled threats (which you later deny making) that would only be believable (briefly) to perhaps the most involuntarily eye-rolling, head lolling tard on the block. You're a five-star cheesefuck, and I'm an idiot for having put up with your bullshittery for this long.
By the by, if the kind gentleman from the Federeal Bureau of Investigation is reading this-indeed, using Uncle Sam's valuable criminal-catching equipment and time to peruse the internet with high-intelligence for the purpose of uncovering this simple diary so that fuckstick can bray that there is nowhere I can go that he cannot find me, let me say two things: 1.) he drops your name to EVERYONE who'll hear it, and
2.) print this out and give it to him. If he worked this hard to get here, he deserves to see this entry in all of it's glory. Party on, Garth.
