fucktards
6:24 p.m.

Hey fuckers,

Where were you when I needed you? All of you. I'm so sick of all your trivial traumas about your clothes and your lipstick and your pubs and blah blah blah. You. Make. Me. Sick.

Woe betide whoever happens to see me tomorrow. Or anyday thereafter.

Tomorrow is my birthday.

I will be seventeen.

Tomorrow is the day that I will die.

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