If I was angry, I would tell you. I know you keep insisting that I’m mad because you stole my kill, but that is, in fact, not the case. As you can see, I am the pinnacle of calm and placidity, despite the fact that you blatantly stole my kill that would have allowed me to carry your dog ass. I say this not in anger, but as a matter of fact. You stole my kill and now I cannot carry. Does this make me happy? No, it doesn’t. But I am not mad.
All told, the only thing disturbing my perfectly pleasant mood is your non-stop insistence that I’m furious. I have made it abundantly clear (as you can see above) that I am, in fact, not angry, perturbed, or even irate in the slightest. I can’t say that when you took my kill like the degenerate fuck you are, that it made me jump up and down in joy. Of course not. But did it infuriate me? Even a little? Absolutely not, don’t be ridiculous. I’m far too used to dealing with lobotomized shitbirds like you to let such a thing affect me in even the smallest possible way.
And yet, you keep typing that I sound mad. I have no idea what, up to this point, could lead you to such an obviously ludicrous conclusion. If I were to come to your house, yes, I would beat the ever-living shit out of you, but I would do so in a calm and controlled manner. I would be the picture of composure as I punched you in your inbred fucking face. That is a fact. If I displayed any outward signs of anger, they would be so subtle that you wouldn’t even notice them through your ugly, mangled head. Can you get that through your skull? I am not mad. I am not mad. Stop saying that I am.
Fine, okay, I am mad, but not because you stole my kill. I forgave you for that long ago. You’re simply arousing my anger by forcing feelings on me that I do not have. I wasn’t mad, but then you kept saying I was mad, and now I’m mad. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, you see. I hope you’re happy. Stop saying you fucked my mom. Stop repeating it.
God fucking dammit.