Are your dark and murderous designs pathological expressions of impotence, or part of the healing process?
You've ridden the rebound roller-coaster, gotten drunk and smashed up your car, howled to the moon on your knees. You'd acknowledge suicidal ideation if you weren't so scared of being among The Diagnosed. You no longer subvert every single fucking conversation into a cry of pain for the love that could not be. You're all healed up now, allegedly. Aren't you?
I mean, cut the crap. Has anything really changed? NO!
I present you with a virtual scenario in which legal and social consequence are non-existent. It's time for you to stop sobbing, and start stabbing, so...
Let's get it on!