My tongue has muscles.
Cry to death if you like.

She prepared her painting carefully by killing the last hope. Grandmas blood was all over the wall and the bed. Grandma was dead, obviously.
She read Nietzsche and listened to Mozart. Gave a fuck and did so. 202 Men. 22 Women.
She was red-headed, hated flesh, ate vegan, did four ours and twelve minutes sport each day.

She was scared of cats. Scared of whiskey and loved beer. And now she did THAT.

She killed.

She.
She.
She.

And she wrote a rap song.

Forgot everything else.

Should be known as the darkest neighbourhood-bitch alive.

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