2003-12-13 - 4:47 p.m.

Dear Asswad, Loser Cook,

Right now I think you are the scum of the earth. I think you are more than that, I think you are the scum, of the scum of the earth. Nope, you are the scum of the scum of the scum of the earth.

When I walked in this morning and saw your face, all swollen, bloody, black and blue, I was horrified. That place in the pit of my stomach that clenches and weeps when I hurt so badly for someone that I can't stand it, was churning. You told me that someone had jumped you last night. That five, big guys beat you up for fun. Because they hadn't taken anything, hadn't done anything else but jump you and beat you up. And I was raving mad. I was off on a tangent about the human race, about how bad people are. I was revisited by the sickness of memory, remembering when someone jumped my brother, when he was fifteen. I was literally sick to my stomach you fucking asshole. Because of you. I felt so, so bad for you. I imagined their fists pounding into you, breaking your face open, bruising your bones. I imagined the fear, the panic you must have felt. I hated that.

And then I was in the office and I heard you talking to the dishwashers, bragging sort of, which was different from the attitude you took when describing the incident to me. You were saying, "Yeah, I guess I learned my lesson, don't hang out on Howard at night and don't call a bunch of niggers, "Niggers," when they are walking by."

I hope they beat the shit out of you. I hope you are scarred for life.

I hate you.


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