You suck, Folk Hero, and all that you do will burn to nothing when subjected to the flames of time. Give up. Stop wasting air. Put your feet into your mouth and chew... keep chewing and swallowing until you disappear. If I had a dime for each time you sickened me, I'd have about a Quillion dollars, and I'd go out and buy a woodchipper to toss your malformed, smelly carcass into. I would dance in the fetid shower of gore that would rain down, and then I would piss into the puddle of slimy filth that would collect. Please begin choking, and don't stop until the color leaves you. The sounds you make have a smell. The thoughts you think have a smell. The life you live HAS A SMELL. Jump off of something tall. Enjoy the sensation of falling, and then pay for it by exploding upon impact, never more to use any atom of that despicable corpse for anything except being dead. Anyone who appreciates you is a victim of your lies. Anyone who doesn't loath you should be pitied for the horrible crimes you have perpetrated against them, letting them think you are anything but a sewer dog. You taste like the piss of the rats that infest your matted fur. The flavor hangs in the air, so that anyone entering a room you've occupied for even a moment can sense it on their tongue, though you had left hours, even days before. You touched someone's hand the other day, and now their skin peels where your filth infected them. The world wouldn't be a better place if you died, because it could never recover from even the briefest hosting of your rottenness. Even if you had never been born, the fact that you could even exist in a parallel universe is enough to ruin the lives and health of millions... you are puke.