The rapists sleep like babies. All of your friends are lying to you. They're lying to you. Kill yourself. There's a camera under your bed, listening to you masturbate. Why are you talking to yourself? Stop talking to yourself. This world is a lie.

The one thing you have to keep in mind: The only one sure fire way to be rosary elegant is to dance. When you get a nasty thought like this one: "Oh, black people steal." Just dance it off. Dance the bad thoughts away. "Don't think about it," they said, "It will go away." The first time I distanced myself from myself was when I was 6 years old and my daddy locked me in a dark closet with a dog of bag food for 2 days. At that point I was Narrator, Jonathan, and Jorge. 3 for the price of 2 strikes you're out. My cranky ol diddy pa let me out after the second day on good behavior. I had pissed myself twice, so he beat me two and a half times for each urination: five times total. Jonathan and Jorge scolded me just the same, stupid cucks. By the time I was 10, I was eight people. Billy, Bobby, Scooter, Achilles, John F. Kennedy, Holland 1945, Jonathan, and Jorgette, who recently came out as transgender and insists on she/her pronouns. You want to know a secret about true detachment, my one and only friend? You don't choose it, it chooses you. I didn't choose the thug life, the thug life chose me. It happened the first time when I was 28 or so, I woke up in increasingly dangerous places throughout the week, without having any idea of how I got there. I finally pieced it together that I was taking tolerant-resistant sleeping pills, and was exposed to asbestos, and was therefore blacking out and robbing people at knife point. I finally came to learn this when the County Hogs arrested me for bribery: armed bribery. Who knew the judge didn't like menthols? You don't choose the dissociative life, the dissociative life chooses you. Scooter was always screaming at me, "Narrator! Wake up! You're hurting people!" but it didn't make any sense. Anyway, I finally hit reality when I was thrown in jail for armed robbery. My daddy done bailed me out, at the ripe old age of 105. But then it was back to closet and the bag food for your ol' pal Jorgette. He was pretty - sorry, she - was pretty pissed off at that, the old bitch. Screaming and hollering about transphobia and heteroelectricity. Sorry, it's not sexist because I still think of her as a man. Stupid cunt. But it was your humble narrator (and ever-decaying conscience) that had to endure, the pains of the mice that were loose in the depths of the closet, nibbling on my genitals. Scooter and that piece of shit Jonathan were freeloaders. This time, the closet punishment had an unusual twist. I would routinely black out, without provocation, for days at a time. This would always alarm whoever was closest to me, or anyone I lived with, but most of the time I would wake up alone. This happened in the closet. It must have been four or five days, because my dad figured now I won't starve to death, since it's 2017 and I can order a pizza on my Sam Sung Berry. So he lets me out a little later than he always did. It was almost traumatizing how long I was in there, until I fell asleep. But my dumb ol daddy thought I was dead when he opened the door and I was unconscious with mouse shit in my hair. I woke up to a doctor pricking my arm with adrenaline and my dad shaking his head at me in disappointment, like he always does, in some hospital room. It's his own fault he felt shitty. Who tortures their own child like that?

You are worthless. No one loves you. You should be dead right now. All you do is consume, and spend, and waste. You're a taker. What time is it? Fuck you, that's what time it is. Fucking kill yourself. Not good enough. Faster. You're selfish. You're alone. You're hurting everyone that loves you. Fuck you. Do it again. You're doing it wrong. You're living the wrong way. There's something wrong with you. You're too fucked up in the head to be a real person. You should be dead. Everyone's better than you. They're going to hurt you. You can't exist as a living being in this world, there's a box around you, a wall, a separation that keeps your bullshit in and keeps any kind of social interaction out. Please die soon. The majority of your life you've spent in hopeless misery. You're going to spend the rest of it like this because you're too stupid to go to college. You're too stupid to go to college because you never learned how to work. You never learn how to do anything right. Stupid fuck. Please blow your brains out tonight. Cut yourself. Burn yourself. You deserve to be in pain. You deserve to be hurt. You're a problem child and you ruin people's lives. You're a fundamentally broken person and you don't matter. You're running out of friends. Jaden there goes a friend. Henry there goes a friend. Luke there goes a friend. Kristin there goes a friend. You can't go a day in your life without fucking something up. You broke your stove. You broke your window. You broke everyone's trust. You're destructive, and you're a monster, and you feel nothing. If you don't hang yourself tonight, you're going to suffer forever. You deserve to feel this. Fuck you. You want this to go away? You want to go home and go to sleep? You want to feel love and companionship like real human beings do? You fucking can't. You're not real. You're a fractured and tiny creature. This isn't happening. Pizza Hut isn't happening. Leaning Tower isn't happening. Panchero's isn't happening. Casey's only happened once. You deserve this. This is the world telling you how much it hates you. The world hates you because you're a monstrosity, a deformity. Your brain is deformed. GET THE PHONE Kill yourself now. You used to be smart. You used to care about yourself, and you used to have ambition in life. The only reason someone loves you now is because you're a hollow person and there's nothing inside you. It's easy to love something that's weak. Fuck you. Please fucking kill yourself so you can stop ruining other people's lives. You deserve to sit in a corner hurting yourself. Turn out all the lights. Tie your belt up. Shoot yourself. Drink cough syrup. Burn yourself. Again. Do it again, and do it right you fucking cock sucker. You want to know why you're an artist? Because you're pathetic. You indulge yourself in pointless things because FUCK YOU you're a desperate and insecure person. All of your friends are lying to you. They make fun of you behind your back because you're a terrible person. They only continue to keep hanging out with you because they hate you. You fucking degenerate parasite. You make a pathological liar and a hopeless sociopath look like stable people. You have to be good for person #1, otherwise you're bad for person #1. I see the world in black and white. I have been told no. Today, the world tells me "no" again. You're STILL a virgin? Why don't you blow your brains out, you pussy? Move along for the real Chads. Do you notice how out of place you are? You're not just out of place in Ankeny, or in your family. You're a mistake of humanity. You're nothing. Doing anything that's not killing yourself is a waste of time, and prolonging the inevitable. The world wants you to kill yourself and it's been telling you this for a long time. Fuck you! I hate those fucking pussies! You could've done something for me! You could have loved me! I spent my entire life hiding! You have to hide! YOU FUCKING BUG YOU VERMIN. You deserve to be abused! You stupid man. You stupid piece of shit. Listen to noise music. Drown this out. Hey, want to know a good idea? Kill yourself. That's how you make the bad thoughts go away. You think these are bad thoughts? You don't know what "bad" is, you fucking coward. You think you have generalized anxiety disorder, but you're really just a privileged stuck up trust fund baby who's never worked a day in his life. This is what happens. This is how your brain responds to stress, because you don't know what stress is. This is why you keep saying KILL YOURSELF over and over again. WORK FASTER. BE HARD. BE A REAL FUCKING MAN. NOW. I HATE YOU BECAUSE YOU REMIND ME OF MYSELF. WORK FASTER. BE HARD. AND TAKE CONTROL. This has been happening to me for a number of years. Ever since my first job at Leaning Tower, I've been telling myself FUCK YOU and screaming at myself, and hurting myself. You don't deserve anxiety meds because you use illegal drugs. Your love isn't real. You don't deserve to have your suffering alleviated. Please manipulate someone into supporting you or otherwise drown yourself. You drink alcohol so you're a bad person, and you make me feel like a bad person. My actions don't have consequences. WORK HARDER. You piece of FUCKING shit. I FUCKING hate you. I can't believe you've never had sex. You can never validate yourself unless you stick your stinky little dick in someone. You're worthless unless you're with someone else. You never learned how to show affection, but you sure as fuck learned how to get attached. That's all you are, is a parasite. People peel you off of their skin because you take things from them. You are a subhuman. KILL YOURSELF.

On top of old smokey all covered with snow I lost my poor lover for courting too slow Courting's a pleasure and parting is grief But a false-hearted lover is worse than a thief A thief will just rob you and take all you save But a false-hearted lover will lead you to the grave And the grave will decay you and turn you to dust Not one girl in a hundred a poor boy can trust They'll hug you and kiss you and tell you more lies Than cross lines on a railroad or stars in the skies So come all your maidens and listen to me Never place your affections on a green willow tree For the leaves they will wither and the roots they will die You'll be forsaken and never know why On top of old smokey all covered with snow I lost my true lover for courting too slow