Hell hath a name. That name is yours. Cheese has more drive, more feelings, and quite frankly, a fresher aroma than you can ever aspire to. You are so nauseatingly dim you probably haven’t the least idea why I have been moved to vent my feelings, however, delicately, concerning your snivelling existence. Egoist is not a word I’d use to describe you, for although it poorly describes your self-centred little universe, the word assumes the presence of a cerebral cortex, something you clearly function without. Your disgusting loathsome habits clearly know no bounds. Merely being in the same room as you evokes this terrible desire to sprinkle slug poison all over you, pick you up with a piece of newspaper, and then flush you into the sewer. The protoplasmic prejudices you pass off as thought have, I observed, the uncanny effect of silencing any meaningful conversation. People forget entirely what they were talking about as they vainly, stupidly even, try to make logical sense out of your oxymoronic utterances. The breadth and depth of your belligerent ignorance is awe-inspiring. You have negated six million years of human endeavour in one short lifetime. If you were to remember the first time your mother set eyes upon you and the first words she ever spoke at you, you would find remarkable similarities. The tripe which you seek to pass off as thought is just that: the deceased intestinal lining of large, dumb herbivores. Your faults are so overwhelming I feel, only out of a sense of utter, despair, that I cannot continue writing. May you rot.