True maliciousness is quite uncommon, and it's very very rare that you'll ever stumble across pure unrefined evil in the wild. Instead, it's our simple forgiveable failings, our everyday ordinary flaws that seem to cause the majority of human misery.

Tonight I have been watching people grind themselves to pieces. And for what.

I don't know who to believe. I throw up my hands! I am moving to the moon to become a cheese miner, like my Dad, and his father before him. But for all you leftovers who remain on earth still gathering your gravy on the side of plate: try to keep your face to the sun.

Cos I am sick of seeing what people do to each other, and I am sick of doing it myself. Course, of course (a horse! of course) that won't stop nothing, I will continue regardless, spitting careless razorblades then cleaning the wounds with my dirty fingernails. You know I think it would be a lot more honest, or at least more noble if you guys just stabbed each other in the front, with actual knives, rather than using metaphorical line drawings and firing your volleys of proxies.

The duel is a grand tradition, one that desperately needs to be resurrected.

By the way, and I'm just saying it! I'm just saying so we all realise exactly where we stand, I am the kind of blade it really really doesn't pay to grab by the sharp end; handled without the correct respect and proper protocol I can just as easily cut you to shreds as your opponent.

I wouldn't even try. Cos playin me is kinda like sneezing next to nitroglycerin: GODDAMN FUCKING STUPID, AND ALSO A SERIOUS BREACH OF URINAL ETTIQUTE.

I am very disappointed, in each and every one of us. Somehow I expected better for some reason, despite experience, despite evidence and history and hearsay I was honestly waiting for you to surprise me, I wanted, I needed to be proven wrong. A cynic, I reckon, is anyone who swears black & blue he doesn't believe in Santa Claus, yet somehow still manages feel a bit downcast ever time Christmas rolls around, by the cookies Santa never seems to eat, or the letters he never gets round to answering.

Well, St. Nick, how about it? Rumour has it that you're magic and the papers say you give a shit so how about some general goodwill or just one single day of peace on earth you fat old impotent bastard. This Christmas how about you make everything work out for everyone.

I HATE ALL OF YOU... but every Christmas the mad rash hope remains, a flicker of childhood optimism, that maybe this is the time I'll finally finally get that bright red ten speed.

Just go ahead, go ahead kill each other. I'll send you a postcard, eager lunar hula girls bathing topless, legs spread open like melted butter across the sweet golden bread of the sun drenched sea of tranquillity

you goddamn fucking monsters.