Title: Junk Mail
Featuring: Malak Garland
Date: 7/29/2021
Location: Internet

cOnOr,

Can you hear me from your skin chaffing hammock? How’s the members of your league of stupid friends? Probably a delectable delight, right? Do you guys sit in a circle and compliment each other’s special attributes?

Wow, lots to unpack here. Lots to unpack, indeed.

I can hear you loud and clear from my safe space. It’s mine after all. I allow whatever I want in and out of it. I am the ruler of this world and you’re just a player in it.

Actually, you’re just a child.

Actually, you’re just a nimrod.

Actually, you’re just a simp.

I’ll decide what you actually are later, when I have the time to commit to it, but I need to respond to your non-colloquial bickering right now.

You see, cOnOr, I liked you. Past tense. I really did, but the problem is entirely you. You are the most anal retentive, passive aggressive, immature act this side of Sgt. Safety. Grow up. Gain some resiliency. The only people that play video games are pimple faced losers who never grow out of their mom’s basement.

This is you.

Whereas people our age have progressive and outspoken minds of social intellectualism who refuse to take no for an answer and create meaningful societal change.

This is me.

See the difference?

I am a savant. I am superior to you in every conceivable facet. I run with the right crowd, not the one that rage quits when they get no-scoped from across the Blood Gulch map.

You strike me as someone more interested in painting tiny war troop figurines and wondering how big their blast radius is than putting in the actual work of a wrestler in the gym. You’re right. I haven’t been watching you. Why? See above. You are an inferior fleck of dust in my world.

I won’t accept your challenge because I don’t hide from things. You do. Only losers like you back down from challenges so I suggest you run away. Return to the matchmaking lobby honey, because there aren’t any ranked battles for you here.

Now it’s time to get nasty. I actually hate you. You’re a total nimrod with your goofy headband and color coordinated tights. Take your joystick into the gendered washroom of your choice, find a stall and feel free to go ham on it because everyone and their grandparents know that’s the only way you’ll be scoring any kind of points.

I hope you look in the mirror and understand how pathetic you are, trying to pander to me like that. Usually, I’d get rattled at the things you said but to be honest, you don’t scare me. You want to talk about paper? Well, the reason I’m not scared is because I know you have a paper-thin mentality. All bark and no bite.

Dude, tell me I’m wrong?

Oh wait, what’s that?

Hold on.

Did you hear that?

It’s your mouth breathing mom calling. Pizza bites are done. She even microwaved them for you, put them on a nifty plastic plate and filled up your sippy cup with juice.

Better go running back to her and continue playing your video games with your thumbs that work before I break them off your hands, you cuck.

Uncut 100. I remain not booked. Call someone who cares. Maybe Favored Saints will entertain your heatless ideas. Chump.



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