A TEMPLE BUILT TO YOUR SELF IMPORTANCE. AIR THICK WITH RAGE BLOOD AND BODY ODOR. WALLS ADORNED IN BAROQUE PORTRAITS OV EVERY WOMAN WHO TURNED YOU DOWN. A SELFISH MONUMENT TO INFANTILE EMOTION. LONG CORRIDORS INSIDE YOUR OWN MIND. GLUT ENTITLEMENT STEEPED IN FAILURE. GREASY INCUBATOR FOR A MONSTER. GO SEE A FUCKING THERAPIST. YOU'VE NEVER DONE ANYTHING KIND FOR ONE OF THESE WOMEN YET EXPECT THEM TO TAKE A KNEE BEFORE YOU. WHAT ARE THEY MEANT TO BE IMPRESSED BY? INSUFFERABLE GATEKEEPING? MYSOGINY DRESSED AS CHIVALRY? AN ARMFUL OF NS BLACK METAL CDS? GO SEE A FUCKING THERAPIST. YOU PACE THE HALLS OV YOUR OWN MISERY FOR WITHOUT THEM AS A SAFE SPACE YOU WOULD HAVE TO FACE REALITY RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION AT THE BLAMELESS
AND EVERY NIGHT WHILE TUCKED INTO BED, AS CREEPING GUILT FINDS YOUR MIND. YOU OPEN THE DOOR IN THE DUNGEON AND MEET THE MAN THAT YOU ARE NOT. HE'S YOU BUT HAPPY AND WELL ADJUSTED. AND HE LAUGHS AS HE SAYS WHAT ARE THE CARGO POCKETS FOR LANZA? EXTRA MAGS?
