Whatever doesn’t kill me only serves to gradually injure me, whether physically or emotionally, sapping me of the will to live, so that even if I remain alive I’m essentially a walking corpse, until I decide I would have been better off had I been killed—I’m sorry, but you know how everything else pales when you get a really nasty paper cut.
LEST WE FORGET THE HORRORS
January 3, 2011
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