Dear Lord

Can you hear me, God?
Feeling really ugly here.
I'm invisible to women.
I'm not a consumer.
How much does fun cost?
I've never had any.
People could only tell me...
'Do it yourself'
I did it myself.
It wasn't fun because of your selfish monetary society clogfucking this earth, taking up too much space, thinking you own everything, and charging too much money for the fun shit while poor people get ripped off with cheap copies of fun. Where the fuck do you get off? Because my accomplishments were done alone, they weren't on your radar, thus I just wasted twenty years proving you wrong when you won't listen anyway, which is what created this nightmare in the first place. Your idea of fun is simply not my idea of fun. Your advice is from a television screen.

I'm looking for the one lady on this planet, who doesn't give a four fly horse fuck about money, and would rather dedicate herself to the visionary who might end this nightmare, and I'll just clone her.

Unless, of course... you object.

Fuck yourself, society.
You think you're so cool.
You think you're perfect.
And you're always right.

You're consumers.
You're lower than pond scum.
You should be ashamed of yourselves.
But the television gives you pride.

I'd rather oppose that,
than be a cheap fuckin' replica clone imitation of it.
I'd rather die,
than live your product life for one minute.

Copy...
Duplication...
I bet I could fax you...

Please, Lord, answer my eighty billion voicemails...