You are nothing more than what I feel between your legs. So loveless in my distaste for femininity, I refuse with spiteful eyes those who spread themselves before me. Am I not the first to devour worth wherein you may have kept clean your skin now stained with human filth? To what great lengths I will go to force upon you this knowledge of yourself--am I not your only friend?
Allow me to elaborate upon what little truth--if such a thing exists--you may discern: You are not beautiful, for never have I beheld such a filthy and loathsome creature more worthy of contempt--more earning of disgust; I do not love you; for in consideration of the sewage to which your very soul owes its form and composition, why must I have ever been expected to? In warring factions our genders speak.
And what then of us, and of myself? Why, as you may justifiably inquire, claim fellowship among such base and despicable animals? And so it goes...we are but one, not two; we are the same, never at odds. I see in you that which I myself have always been: vile, corrupted, fallen, malignant--a festering stagnation of all things pure and virtuous; a human being.
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