I promise I won't beat you or make you video-record me fucking your other sister up the ass as she dies, especially since your youngest sister already died on those exact terms. I wouldn't put you through that again, I promise. I would never make you feel the pain you could have avoided had your mom just sucked off your father that night of your conception rather than getting dicked balls-deep.
Let's just make it all okay. I will wed you and change my last name to Homolka---in a fucking heartbeat, I will. 'Post traumatic stress disorder' is just a fusion of words they use to make you think these arms of mine can't countermeasure all the inflictions you've endured. Don't listen to them. My arms are open wider than Creed's collective anuses getting raped by file-sharers.
God Damn, You're Fine!
C'mon, babe. We can work this out. I already have my own camcorder and I live near a middle-school. Whatever it takes, I'm here. I don't care if I have to keep a bag of Jolly Ranchers in the glove compartment to lure them in, I promise, we won't get caught.
Miss you, baby. By the way, I know a little something about masonry, so those limbs will never be found when you're by my side, unlike last time (wink-wink.)
Z. <--- I pack a chainsaw!
E-mail:embittered@catharticlament.com
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