Slithering out from Tartarus in a pool of bile, it was on this day two centuries ago that you were expelled from your mother’s loins. Better to have had your infant skull shattered against the bureau than suffer you to live amongst decent men; but this was not to be. I often wonder at the cause of your irredeemable degradation. Was the womb too hostile, a poisonous mire to choke and derange your tiny unformed brain; or was it an angry, reckless seed that was planted to produce such excremental fruit? What deprived you of faith in your fellow man and drove you ever deeper into the imaginings of your pixilated mind? Were you beaten to sleep nights following a tepid supper of offal and thorns? Perhaps poverty soured your soul and delusions of genius isolated you to the point that the world was made to seem utterly inhospitable to all you desired. Surely you would put the blame for your sins on circumstance, just as you always held your many benefactors responsible for your failures; the truth is that most of the miseries suffered by you and those around you were the result of your many infirmities of character, or of voluntary faults in your conduct. Truly you were never able to comport yourself in a manner befitting someone imbued by nature with such a poetical gift, without which I do not believe you possess one redeeming attribute. Never have I encountered a man who’s gentlemanly demeanor (when not in a fit of intoxication) so belied the depraved inner workings of his soul; nor one with such a greasy tongued ability to excuse his reprehensible behavior and conceal his true motivations. Perpetually possessed by envy, satyriasis, and inebriation, it is only by some miracle that any beauty could live in you at. That a man of such little quality as yourself should be endowed by the creator with such uncommon talent is a sin by God against man.
I take comfort in one thing, however. While you lived, you suffered in squalor and ignominy. I pray that the paranoid despair that reigned in you throughout the tenure of our acquaintance grew ever more intolerable until your last gasp.
And now you lie dead, your corrupted flesh a perfect complement to your spiritual decay.
So enjoy oblivion you gleeking perfidious dung-witted dogs-pizzle. I piss upon your memory and pray often that Lucifer’s barbed and turgid member has made a murky porridge of your rear passage.
I hope your birthday is shit,
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