You whiny, complaining bitch, did you seriously have to lay down the melodrama icing so thick that it choked the nearest one unfortunate enough to glimpse its frail skeleton? (Self-pity had to go up the linguistic chimney one day or another...) Excuses, excuses, explaining away and smothering the life out of me, --how 'bout you just be up front, fuck face: You had a homosexual lapse with retarded emotional baggage, and simultaneously regressed back to puberty, hallucinated pimples and all, repeating the same day over like cancer growing dense, stronger as it spreads, but it couldn't grow denser than your fucking skull, even though it had more motive and drive than that hibernating cerebrum that supposedly harbors some pregnant intellect, which was actually more like a bloated cunt pigged out on twinkies, steroids, with menopause and suffering amphetamine P.M.S. (Well, now we know which split-personality handles matters of anal bombardment.) Never complained when it served your purpose, you obese, wrinkled twat. Now that you've jolted out of the dream town of fools, or Dimsville as I call it, there won't be ANY peace in your thoughts until you've settled your little demons. In short, life's short, your split personalities have just about ZERO patience-- same goes for your sex drive since we're on the topic of patience-- and you seem to respond most effectively to irritation and mental pain, so that's the prescription. Your proper dosage will be forcefully served since it's best taken against your will. (Indeed, you've even invaded my dreams, you insufferable little shit..) When all's said, and everything on the big white list is checked off, you'll really be able to explain the minute details of your mental inferno, slut. (At least I will have accomplished something productive by then, all burnt and aching for retribution that fades from its own emptiness.) Good... otherwise we're gonna have to consider psychological suicide.