what a loser

i saw him today and you know perhaps i'd let him squat on the floor and rip his nose apart with one perfect front kick, they say it takes more balls to resist and not give in to the urge of hitting an adversary but i'd rather feel better, much better.

i've never known anyone who has a knack for doing every little things efficiently and perfectly wrong other than him. i used to be his greatest admirer and then i decided to be his worst critique and now it bothers me how i've come to realize that for years i've been meaning to kick his face.

it's a shame how i saw the look on his face in the street as though his life i imagine, like disposing of a car and driving it off san juanico just because its headlights are broken.

then to no avail i'd try to tell him that if his life was a basketball game and he'd die at the age of 60 then the game's probably only on its second quarter and it doesn't mean that if you're down 50 you;d lock yourself up and bawl over the 50 points like you've lost a limb or something

stop living like a sore monument even before it's been unveiled. like a pain of sorrow and anguish, and of fear of regrets and anxieties and self contempt despite the obvious truth that for so long, he has been resting his head against the sword and there's no one around to chop his head off. tanga!

i hope this helps and when can i kick your face?