I hate when I play “Slender the eight pages” and he doesn’t want to catch me.

I’m listening to somebody’s breathe. It’s a nice, rhythmic sound. This sound is coming to me from behind my back. It’s nice sound. It makes me calm. I’m almost in heaven.
I wonder who is behind me? I almost see you, baby. Who breathe like an angel? Who wants silence inside of my mind? Who are you baby? Why do you wear a hat and coat? It’s quite hot inside. I love your rhythmic breathe. Who are you?
Where are you? You were behind me, I saw you…

I can’t stop listen to ” the peruvian ripper” by Phyllomedusa. Satan has dipped his fingers in it.

I want to eat chips and pizza with ketchup and sauce of garlic and maybe chocolate and WZ cake and cola, lemon tea or orange juice. And an pineapple.

I hope I disgust you enough.

I hate when someone makes me a coffee because: doesn’t know how much coffee I add to cup, doesn’t know  how much water I pour to cup, doesn’t know how much milk I pour to coffee (I hate coffee with milk btw.) and doesn’t know how much sugar I use. I drink coffee only with one lemon slice.
Keep your hands off my coffee before you destroy it.