16 March 2006
Yaya, die.
I was raised by three main people: A frustrated nun mom, a sneaky dad, and yaya. Of them, yaya had the most influence on me, considering the fact that she's still with me. Oh don't get me wrong--she was never your nice guardian. All my teachers from pre-school to college--whom I was sure were to forever roam this world as spinsters, and I was almost right--do not compare to her. She's as vile as she can get, but I liked her anyway. A little too much, it seems, because she's still hanging around prolly because she has the impression that I can still stomach her ugly face.
Now I just want her to die.
Her name is Paranoia.
Now I just want her to die.
Her name is Paranoia.
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