Movember is the month of the dickless, and the dead
You guys who grow your moes, you faggoted, dickless, bunch who show off at the elevator, posturing, pompous, pricks, you
scat munching ingrates, you self promoters, congegrating at the iced water fountain, one hand on gluteus, the other waiting
to salute the ode.
You have no history, no regrets, living an eternal now of feeling your pec, your inner thigh, your bicep.
You alphas are Omegas. You masturbators are the end.
So sick of hearing the posturing lies, seeing the wanton whores, reading your screeds, just want to kill you.
It would be so easy to push you down the fire stairs, or clean punch your jaw as you stare at me seated at your desk.
Relying on my restraint, all the whiles unaware of how much I could easily destroy you, relying on your own satisfaction,
content, your mother’s words in your ear, I could destroy you.
But. I do my job. Listen. Work and wait.
Should you ever enter a stairwell, watch your back.