Beneath the street.
In a tunnel.
T'was made for cars.
Beneath the stars.
Of southern France.
The careless whispers.
You are despicable.
I loathe you.
Are you even aware of how truly miserable you make me feel?
Understand this: I hate you. Now that we've gotten that out of the way, let me continue.
I am sure you'll misconstrue this as just idle vitriol. That's the type of person you are, exaggerating things to suit your agenda. Usually accompanied by some snide, elitist remark, an attempt to push me down the ranks of importance, even lower than the lint that resides inside your bellybutton. Surely you comprehend how childish, immature and silly you behave, and how pathetic that is.
I didn't just imagine all of this overnight. I've put up with this crap for years, and