I feel burnt out, forgotten, superfluous, unsafe at any speed, uncomfortable among my own remaining friends and their politics, and terrified for having placed my lone remaining egg in the Parallax basket.

For related reasons, I also feel like hiring a trained coyote stunt plush, hanging a sign around their neck saying "The Actual God Coyote," and then gently tethering them to the ceiling for multi-hour use as a Nerf bat piñata. Fuck You for being right about EVERYTHING, Divine Asshole.

(The plushyote stunt double would of COURSE be given proper safety equipment and an on-staff doctor from Médecins Sans Squelettes, as well as an imaginary Craft Services table. I may be a savage bloodthirsty predator who can't even tell my friends from my enemies and will surely live out the rest of her days in exile in some Jovian Zoo For The Criminally Bitey... but I'm not a monster.

Or you could just kill me and save everyone the trouble.)