I made a mistake and checked for a weekend journal entry from psychotic-stalker-loser Ed's blog that I have been reading for entertainment. [SB knows this really says more about my life than the loser's. I get it fuckers. Thanks.] Anyhoo, Ed's already setting his psycho ass up to stalk ANOTHER chick. He met this chick when she made the mistake of asking his dumb ass for directions. Poor woman.
[Excerpt from sorry-ass entry below. Again, names have been changed to protect the innocent and the psychotic. The words in parentheses are mine.]
Though I've professed to myself, Leroy, Jon, and Sherri that whatever happens with Frieda happens and will not be adorned with hope, I am [sexually] excited to be seeing her again. There is no spark of romance [at least on her part], just a feeling of newness, of stepping off in a new direction, not simply without fear, but with ready anticipation. Call that hope if you like, but that would be premature [ejaculation], and I want nothing about this to be premature [ejaculation]. Everything in its due time. But as I was bathing [and pulling on my peen], I thought it would be nice to have a tale to tell on Monday, if anyone should care to ask about my weekend [they won't]. And I would want Elizabeth to hear it [she's not going to give a shit--the only thing Elizabeth might feel is relief that your psychotic ass is no longer stalking her]. In the moment, at the restaurant, I will make nothing of anything [sure, right], and afterward, on paper, I shall subdue the event in reportage [Ed's ass doesn't subdue anything in reportage], but Monday, at work, I will breathe life into it, deservedly or not. I'm a storyteller [pretentious fucktard], after all.
[End boring fucking excerpt]
NOTE: Maybe this fucker should give up journaling and take up greeting card writing. He could probably have a good career at that. Yes, I am grouchy and extra mean today. It's Monday, and the Diarrhetic Wunderkind kept my ass up all night. What do you damn people, want?
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