It’s, that time again, you can hear it, from the tone of her voice, suddenly, sounding, so upset…
As I was growing up, I’d, heard so many tales of your miseries, how you were, beaten up, with that rounded FIST of your adoptive older brothers, and all the while, I had, NO clue what the purpose of you, telling me those F***ED (maxed out???) up tales of your god DAMN life served.
Hearing your tales of misery, how you were, mistreated, beaten up and bruised, by your own adoptive parents, and how you were, mistreated, by your own siblings, my heart went out to you, but that was before, before I’d, finally, come to my senses, of the purposes of those god DAMN stories of the past had served…
You’d, used your sob stories, as a way, of manipulating people into feeling sorry for you, and, as they awed and ahhhhhhhed, over what had happened to you when you were younger, you were, given that much-needed attention that you never received from back when you were still just a kid, and that fed to your desires, to keep on, using those stories, to manipulate those around you.
And yet, after awhile, those stories, they’d, gotten too wrinkly and old, been told, retold, time and time, repeatedly again, and, finally one day, those stories, stopped, working on me!
Hearing your tales of misery, you’d think, that I would, have a heart, and feel bad for you, but I don’t, ‘cuz, I can, recite those god DAMN stories, forwards AND back to you already, and, they’d, stopped working on me since.