Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Picking up speed, I tore into LAYOUTT, squirmed into WORDOUT, slid into COPYCAT, tumbled into SYSTEM, and crashed into HKGRAPH. I moved the cursor right and down, prodded ENTER, and dived into the thickets of the WORDART administrative directory.

Wrinkling up my forehead, I created the file prayer.txt.

Oh God! They've really fucking got to me!

All these shitty fellow-employees, all these jumped-up bosses. If I had my way, they'd be taking turns reading their own positive test results for cancer of everything! All these WANKERS, QUEERS, COCKSUCKERS! They've really fucking got to me. Lord, please take them away. Take them Yourself or let Your colleagues have them - I don't give a toss. And if You don't take them Yourself, then I'll take care of it. Just one more day of this life, two at the most and that's it. What won't I do to them. Charlie Manson will die of envy.

Do You get the drift, oh Lord?

They say that hope dies last. That's bollocks. Let me tell you, there was a time when people entertained great hopes of me. Those hopes died a long time ago, and it wasn't exactly painless. But I'm still alive and kicking.

by Garros-Evdokimov
Chatto & Windus

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