you are the crumbs on the bottom of cereal box, the dust that finds itself on a forgotten urn. laying my poor, tired eyes upon your stain of a comment fills me with unimaginable rage. stars grow cold and black holes wither away their incalculable mass at the very idea of your pitiful existance. you are the leftovers of satan rolled into a human calzone left half eaten on the dinner table, forgotten. God may love all of mankind, but you have hereby excluded yourself from that moniker; you are placed far below even the dredges and forsaken corners of the dark web.

Professional ares blaster