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You'll read this, of course, you got addicted to my blood spilled over this virtual pages, for some reason. It is on the blogs' dashboard.

Within seconds of each publication, that +1 and minimum of two "reads".

Or the missing +1 in entries that you would frankly dislike or misinterpret me.

Less than 10 out of almost 2000 now. With screenshots.

Why the screenshots? Because it feels at times that you're playing some sort of mind-game with me.

Am I upset? You bet I am. With you? It does not make sense, I cannot be upset with you. There are inklings that you were the one behind a number of allusions, but they amount to little more than Jesus's face on a toast. Illusion of series. Pareidolia.

With me, then? Maybe. There are times in which I am more and more convinced there's no room in the world for a man like I am. That only ill-born bastards who treat women like objects will get someplace. It doesn't last. I cannot turn into that without causing violence to my thoughts. I can't.

I could not, even when I was given all the excuses a man uses for turning violent. And I can't. It's not in me.

Which is why I pay for the rest.

Now, go and tell your friends. Have a good laugh, for when it is Saturday and there's nothing to do, there's nothing quite like seeing a quip contest.