Pathetic
You are the type of human who looks at people who make mistakes as somewhat "defective", as a social outcast. You lose respect for them, judge them unforgivingly and whisper and laugh behind their backs, as if you yourself are incapable of doing nothing wrong. (You tend to blame others for your own mistakes.) You treat people as if they are stupid and not worth talking to or socializing with, because you are too concerned with your cliques, your status, your image.
You look upon others who don't share your interests or who are different from you and your buddies as outcasts. You are petty. You are pathetic.
I'm not being self-righteous. I'm just an observer.
But you have your insecurities. You have things you pray about. You have your fears and worries.
I look for people like you: petty, insecure people who run with the same immature crowd.
That's why I'm a Serial Killer Guardian Angel.
People like you are big game to me. I like to hunt you down.
First, I watch you show off and strut and hang out with guys and talk shop. But at the same time, I listen to your inner fears, your measuring and comparing yourself silently to your buddies.
I hear the same thing over and over again from people like you, nothing new there. It bores me.
But it's the little inner prayers I listen for. The ones in the back of your mind. The ones I hear over and over again. You want a guardian angel to solve all your problems when you get home. And you do have problems. You don't seek therapy. Instead, you seek the help of a guardian angel.
And part of the hunt is putting you out of your misery, so that the world would be a better place--at least for me. Your miserable, inner whining gets to me. Of course I'm jealous of you -- of your toys, that is. Your fancy sports car. Your designer wardrobe.
We guardian angels also want the perks of human life. So late at night, after i've stalked you for a few days, I come to you. I stand at your bedside. I listen to you pray silently, as your wife sleeps.
She will never hear you make a sound as I wrap my hands around your neck and slowly choke you as you drift off to sleep. I make sure you breathe your last, and that your heart stops. And oh, I can make it look like a heart attack. I like to cover my tracks.
When your wife wakes up, you won't. She'll find out later that you died of a heart attack.
Of course, no one will ever believe it was my doing. I am the cause of thousands of heart attacks everywhere. And you humans never suspect guardian angels, do you?
She still clutches a guardian angel statue as she weeps for you. Pathetic.
Go ahead. Pray to me. This is how I'll answer.
You look upon others who don't share your interests or who are different from you and your buddies as outcasts. You are petty. You are pathetic.
I'm not being self-righteous. I'm just an observer.
But you have your insecurities. You have things you pray about. You have your fears and worries.
I look for people like you: petty, insecure people who run with the same immature crowd.
That's why I'm a Serial Killer Guardian Angel.
People like you are big game to me. I like to hunt you down.
First, I watch you show off and strut and hang out with guys and talk shop. But at the same time, I listen to your inner fears, your measuring and comparing yourself silently to your buddies.
I hear the same thing over and over again from people like you, nothing new there. It bores me.
But it's the little inner prayers I listen for. The ones in the back of your mind. The ones I hear over and over again. You want a guardian angel to solve all your problems when you get home. And you do have problems. You don't seek therapy. Instead, you seek the help of a guardian angel.
And part of the hunt is putting you out of your misery, so that the world would be a better place--at least for me. Your miserable, inner whining gets to me. Of course I'm jealous of you -- of your toys, that is. Your fancy sports car. Your designer wardrobe.
We guardian angels also want the perks of human life. So late at night, after i've stalked you for a few days, I come to you. I stand at your bedside. I listen to you pray silently, as your wife sleeps.
She will never hear you make a sound as I wrap my hands around your neck and slowly choke you as you drift off to sleep. I make sure you breathe your last, and that your heart stops. And oh, I can make it look like a heart attack. I like to cover my tracks.
When your wife wakes up, you won't. She'll find out later that you died of a heart attack.
Of course, no one will ever believe it was my doing. I am the cause of thousands of heart attacks everywhere. And you humans never suspect guardian angels, do you?
She still clutches a guardian angel statue as she weeps for you. Pathetic.
Go ahead. Pray to me. This is how I'll answer.
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