So, people I've never spoken to before who've written to me, apologies, but I just can't write back. Just. can't. do. it.
It's beyond disconcerting to realize how distrustful I am of everyone now, guess I've got that demented cunt to blame.
Do I sound hostile? Well, wouldn't you be if you realized that a piece of you you took for granted was suddenly disappeared? Like losing a finger, say, or maybe even the whole hand. My trust in people is gone gone gone. Hostile, yeah. Even, or maybe especially, knowing the reason why. Who knows what else will go missing? I can't fucking wait.
So, those of you who are real, apologies, but I'll bet you're the ones who'll understand. The ones who aren't, the ones who are Janna Saint James, the sick twist who changed me, or her friends or known associates, please go fuck yourself. Repeatedly. I've decided I don't believe for a second that any of her local friends or family know about her twisted double life, or that she's getting help. I think she's still reading this blog and still living her fucked up chupacabra life. Oh, and thanks for the postcard from Australia, "Aidan." Nice fucking touch, asshole. Get off on it while you can, Esmerelda, because I'm getting myself gone from this fucking internets, and you'll be alone on your fucking mythical prairies with your fucking moon and your fucking prairie dogs and your fucking dulce fucking suenos. And you can just shit yourself till the statute of fucking limitations runs out on this, you oblique hypocritical bitch, because I just ain't made up my mind about legal action yet.
So fucking there.