Dear Me,

I know how much you hate genetics and your fucked up childhood. Look at where they've got you. You're a sick fucking paranoid mess. And because of this, you're beginning to lose the most important thing to you. You know it, but for some reason you just can't let this all go.

Good Lord you're fucked up.

Get well soon (or worse, so you can really justify going to live in that padded room you've so often imagined yourself in),
Me.

Ps: Go eat something. He wants you to.

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