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You're an abomination, that's what I'm trying to say.

Trannies should be sodomized with Jamesn's garden tools, and then thrown in Newark's Upper Bay.


You sound dead inside. Numb, foggy, a glimpse of your puffy face in the mirror, another drink, afraid to die, not today, maybe tomorrow. If only you could drown yourself in sorrow, just a shadow, vanishing into the grey currents of the Hudson River, begging for forgiveness.