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01 February 2010 @ 12:54 am
Dear Mr. piece-of-shit  
God, you're an inconceivable prick. "Oh, you're smiling for once." The reason why you never see me smile is because when you see me, I am forced to look at you and you make me unbearably nauseous. You don't know this, but I know you very well, as I went to school with your daughter. I know you hit her and used to force feed her, and I know you're the reason why that beautiful, talented girl is so insecure about herself. The sight of you makes me ill. And of course, you are one of the fucks that wastes their money on countless lottery tickets. Can you honestly not think of anything better to put your money into? You're not going to win. Not ever. The world won't let it. People like you shouldn't have that kind of fortune. Not ever. And to respond to your snappy remark, "Well, you have nothing better to do," I hope you know that, on the contrary, I have much better things to do at work than clean up after your self-made mess. There are about 100000 BETTER things I can think of doing than wiping up the shit you spill on my counter. Go buy your milk, your shitty discount, broken items and your lottery tickets somewhere else. If I ever decide to quit my job, I sure hope I bump into you. And I'll let you know I feel. So don't you ever make a sexual pass at me again. You revolt me.
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