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It doesn't make any sense to be hammering directly over my head in the same spot for two weeks.



There's nothing fucking left to hammer.



At this point ‘ 100 % certain it's just more psychological fucking warfare—



My new roommate is fucking evil and psychotic—


The look in her eyes says she's being possessed by some other dark force, the disgusting, hanging belly fat sinking below her waistline a mark of the devil himself.



Stil, by no maneuverable—my life is expendable, simply just another fucking number; that being said, nobody much cares if I live or die, but the rest of this shamanic curse is said to be that I slit my wrists and kill myself—better that than anyone finding out that my psychology was built aimply through trauma—pahycologicsl and physical abuse which I suffered from birth and until death—a hell which should be reserved for evil people—but it is the evil people's world, and I only pretend to live in it.






{Enter The Multiverse}





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