World

When I find out everyone in the world hates me, I'm happy. I always suspected people kept a kernel of dislike within their bodies, slowly germinating until it could bloom into guns and knives. When they string me up, I won't be dismayed. I'll shake the executioner's hands, say good job, write a comment card suggesting that he be given a promotion. The priest on the scaffold will want to stab his cross in my heart, perform a slaying even Jesus would approve, but I'll be touched that he won't do it, wants to share this moment with everyone. Then a whole group of them will push me off the board, and I'll land in hell, over the black smegma waterfalls, into the puss slide that plunges me into a lake of rotting semen. This is always where I thought I should be, suffering in Hades, because I deserve to suffer, and everything and everyone in that place knows it. I won't look in their molten faces and see fake compassion, a false desire to love that which is repungnant, that which is already dead.