Keyboard psycho. Tell me the time, please. Put it on, turn it off. They don't have decent space buttons here. But they've got buttocks in plenty, mwa-ha-ha.

- Get out of here, now!

The food looks at you. What do you have to say to it? Make it stop crying.

You may say whatever as long as you're sure of the negative answer. Play Hamlet every day. Until it gets boring and testosteron comes rushing down your veins, guiding you in and out. In and out.

Sign a postcard for me.

They would never say yes, but they like my style. The compliments I make. The way I behave. Hey, somebody, feed me, don't you see I'm dying.

Don't you, fucker, see that I'm in desperate need of salvation.

Well, mail me.