My name is Ross Carter
I'm eighteen.
Awkward, inconsistent, random.
People annoy me
I hate pets.
I've been known to develop bonds with inanimate objects. (see also: nerf gun, see also: black blanket)
I hate mustard
and racists
and homophobes
and rednecks (see also: hillbillies, see also: incest)
I'm never content.
I've prayed for bad things to happen to people I didn't like.
I enlisted my friend in the Klu Klux Klan. Sorry Justin.
My exes always end up with life threatening diseases (see also: diabetes, see also: lupus, see also: welders)
I could be described as . . .
A hopeless romantic with an anger problem, a nervous twitch and a complex.
Sometimes, I write
Expired milk. I poured it and it was obviously past its prime but I drank it anyways. I don't know why. Rationality at the time wasn't an option. I felt it, moving around my stomach, crawling and feeding on the lining. It's fucking alive. I drank it, and now it's pissed. I've destroyed the milk's plan for world domination and now it's trying to kill me.
I've never taken responsibility for my own actions. I never will. It's not my fault I drank the milk. The milk shouldn't be fucking available for public consumption. What kind of sick sadist would release a product to the general public that expires in a week? They want us dead. Milk is Murder.
It's like they say . . .
You give a mouse a cookie . . .
He'll slit your throat in your sleep.
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