In my head, I run over and over what it would be like to fucking murder you. You've made my life a misery, I want to end yours. Of course, I won't. I don't want to spend the rest of my life in jail. But thinking of you in pain actually gives me physical pleasure. Unfortunately, there is nothing I can think of; nothing I can actually comprehend that would hurt you enough to make me feel better about my life right now. You are a fucking bastard, and I hope you choke on something.