There's a lot of different ways to talk about things. Daryl, you've taken all these things away from me. All my talk's like cheap toys you get on St. Nicholas day. Plastic trains and glowing candy bracelets. At first it's exciting to have colorful sweet things at home. Day one, you're giggling at everything in a sugar rush. Then, it's exciting to be rich enough to afford things that don't last. Day two, you're still laughing because of the thrill of being frivolous. Finally, scraps of orange plastic and sticky green candy are smashed into the carpeting. Day three, gummy stains are scraped at with a butter knife. Because of you, every day for me is day three. Nothing I do or say is worth anything and, worse, there is nothing I can say or do that gives me any pleasure. Even hating you. Even remembering my sister. You sack of shit dickless donkey fucking mother fuck warm douche bag cold tampon eating cunt. You evil son of a bitch. You sister-killing bastard. I say this and I hate you. And it's a tin wind up car that won't work after the first week. It's a Japanese cartoon that uses the same ten cells over and over again. My hate language is disposable and absurd. But the hate underneath it coils around the bones in my fingers and heaves out against my brittle ribs. I would gnash your eyeballs until my teeth are dyed with red jelly. I would claw open your anus until my fingernails are pasted up with shit and blood, until your colon ends in an uncontrollable gorge. You evil son of a bitch. You sister killing bastard.