XXII.II Square Root
I'm almost at my breaking point.

"On your feet, Dirt Eater."

Hearing this shit call me Dirt Eater for like the hundredth time each fucking morning was running a train of annoyance through my nerves. Each day, of each week, of each fucking month, I always hear this shit heel call for me. The last of my patience had already evaporated just over a week ago, and I could only stifle a glare as forced myself off of my cot. I hope this fuck dies a gruesome death.

Getting up on my feet due to this fuck yanking on my chain, my mind raced with pure hatred and malice as the fuck led me to my most hated place in existence. There was probably a time when I liked making stuff with my hands and at least get some exercise while I'm at it, but the monotony of it all simply eroded at my patience until all that was left was utter contempt and emptiness at the act of
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