what you do with it is on you, i don’t give a fuck either way, i can’t polish the platter any brighter or embed it into your dna because your bones lack my matter. and why should it factor it comes delivered lacking white gloves when a bourboned tongue does just fine. true, i’ve won no points for style but i’ve always been one for neat palms and dirty knuckles. my father left his backhand imprinted upon my youth and so i aged fearing nothing. though as god is my witness i prayed for the buckle instead. i’m sorry you’re deciphering now all i never said but the bloody trail leading down the hall surely should have tipped you off that a wounded animal stalked this house and when cornered it would bare its teeth.
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