Why are you such an idiot? You jaundiced jumped up, vercordiously pusillanimous piffle. Your vileseome existence nauseates me beyond compare. It is politically correct when discussing your faults to use certain words to denote your humanness above your disability. But in your case, there is nothing human. You are just challenged, you are just different. Given a choice of stepping in something nasty on the sidewalk, or bidding you good morning, I would happily choose the former. Single-handedly, you have wrenched all meaning out of life. Congratulations. As I write this I try vainly to think of something, anything, which redeems in some small way your utterly pointless existence. The only thing that comes to mind is that you have taught me hate. Pure, unmitigated hate. I have had fantasies about attacking you with a machete, but I dare not. I once cut up a starfish, which was so neurologically simple that each piece grew into a clone of the original. Your coleopteron brain no doubt shares certain appalling similarities with such creatures. You, misguided as you are, might be asking yourself what you have done to deserve such a letter as this. Your misdeeds and villainous vampings can be described in just two words: you exist. And believe me, there is no reason on earth why you should. How do you justify to yourself waking up each morning and ruining yet another day? If everything in this world has some purpose, some grand plan behind its existence, then yours surely is to show everything else, whether it be a slops bucket in a fried chicken stand, or the gunk behind the fridge, how fortunate it is not to be you. I have tried, but clearly, I have failed. I must stand firm to the realisation that mere words cannot express my utmost and profound contempt and loathing for your person, your being and your existence. You are a blight against nature.
I might be wrong about that.
