Don't talk to me.  I'm not in the mood.  I didn't get any page views today.  I'll never tell another joke again, for as long as I live, and that won't be for very long.  That's right, because I'm going to kill myself.  These people on facebook, these so called facebook friends—no one said anything about my poem, and it's been up for a while, probably a day even.  Not one like.  Well, one bloke tried to like it, but that made it even more pathetic, so I blocked him.  Not one girl posted anything about wanting to have sex with me.  Before I blocked him, I went through his friends list and added the good looking ones, then I blocked him.  These people on facebook—and I'm so humble with them—let me tell you something about these...these miserable insects, they're all conspiring against me.  They're going to steal my poems.  They huddle together, and sometimes a head turns back to look at me.  Then he turns his face again. That's why they won't read my poems, because they're spiteful.  They're like Patrick Bateman when he sees Paul Allen's business card, the egg shell white.  My poems made them crack with envy, and spite, the worms.  I hate them.

What's the point of even getting a P.O. box?  Why do anything?  It's 90 dollars, but I'm on the waiting list.