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There it goes again. The vole-men are burrowing. I can hear their tiny hands, I can hear the soft scratching of hundreds of tiny feet scuttling in their tunnels. I have caught a few. Once defurred they can be roasted like chicken, braised in their own juices, simmering in lemon and thyme. But there are too many of them to eat. They repopulate. They grow to the size of a small child, and they are faster than roaches. Once while I was asleep, they burrowed into the air hole of my bunker, and I had to dispatch six of them at once. I couldn't eat them all. I trekked for miles in the dark, dragging three dead vole-men along. I threw them into a pit, where they would be eaten by greater monsters.
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You see, children, when I was about your age, I figured out that my parents despised me, and I did something about it. Now that I've grown up a little, I decided to write this helpful guide, so I can assist any and all of you that might be in serious danger. What should you do if your parents wish your death upon you, and hope you only suffer? You'll find out soon. But first, I've designed a little test that should help you know if your parents really do hate you.
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I am at a Target store.
The one just past Mount Penglai's Chinese Buffet,
The one with the flimsy sneeze-guards,
The day-old slop resting under the heat lamps,
The slimy sucrose procession of fat-asses,
Scooping the communal gunk into their plates, into their holes—
I ate Singapore Lo Mein and met General Tso there.
He said, "I will suppress your sadness—
Like I suppressed the Taiping Rebellion.
I will be a friend for whom your words,
will be like spring rain to morning flowers,
If flowers were your stomach in this metaphor:
You fat, ugly fuck.
Hey, at least you've stopped drinking cough syrup."
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