so sorry you’re ugly, you have no life except for stalking people whose lives are full, spending all your time desperately trying to learn about them, trying 75 times before being an acceptable person they might even lower themselves to talk to, making sure all your activities revolve around this sad thing in your life, being no one but a v***** who has to hack and stalk and monitor people joyfully living their lives. being a coward. someone who, if you met these confident established people, they would make you bow your head in shame with their one look, which makes you realize you’ve been following a powerful and brightly lit person. they’re not alone–you’re alone. people like them, they’re not awkward, theyre so well liked. how will you ever pull them down. you with your frumply clothing, mole-like looks, the girl the boy never chooses, the man who always sat in the back, in the corner, where no one would see your shame. while the people you stalk, they have lives. you have none. you have absolutely nothing to grasp, nothing to please you, make you smile, make you feel any accomplishment until i give you a story to write moron. don’t forget it. i live. you stalk and you live through me. you’re nothing but a parasite that no one likes. if you disappeared, no one would care. when i disappear, the entire world shifts. not you. it doesn’t notice when you’ve gone somewhere. when you die, no one notices until your smelling death rotting flesh comes stinking into their full life and then, they finally notice you. face it. write your words, but never forget how little you are, writing about people you will never be. now stfu.