FUCQ
Dear Fat Ugly Closet Queen,
Ten years ago, I decided to build my own house. I envisioned it to be a beautiful house, one that I would be proud of. You were a nobody then, not even a junior carpenter. You asked one of my assistants if you could join me in building my house. I gave you my tools and welcomed you to my workforce.
The house was taking shape faster than expected. You were one of my very few trusted foremen. In fact, I rewarded you for good work, sending you abroad to study architecture in America and in Europe.
The house reaped praises from countless publications and interior design awards. It was just too much, quite honestly, way beyond my wildest dreams. I started building more rooms in my house. More and more people joined in -- experts in design, plumbing, landscaping - more seasoned individuals, with more sophistication, creating more polished work.
You became envious of how big and beautiful the house turned out to be and how other people in the team were helping in ways you never imagined. Because of your seething rage that no one could ever comprehend, you started eating the walls and floors of the house that we all built. Underneath the foundation, hidden from me, you infected others, instructing them to do whatever it takes to bring the house down. Because of your tortured sexuality and parochial upbringing, you became the worst creature ever to crawl on this planet.
Fortunately, I had a loyal team, bigger, stronger and wiser, excavating every nook and cranny, extracting your puny inexperienced renegade rodents, crushing them, swatting them, and fumigating the entire property till you and most of your kind were either silenced or rendered utterly harmless.
It’s been three years since you’ve left the underbelly of my house. I’ve continued expanding my home, with my trusted and loyal workers beside me. We’ve become much better than when you were with us. We’ve even travelled the world admiring architectural wonders, to make us better builders.
I hear that you’re just around the neighborhood - as a termite or a closet queen, or both, I really don’t care. Whichever way, you must be leading a very angry and solitary life. I also know that you are still in contact with some of the gnawing mammals in my property that have developed immunity from all the fumigation. I assure you, my duty of house cleaning isn’t over until all of your kind are exterminated.
You and your ilk were never ever on the right side of things. I know so.
Your Creator
Ten years ago, I decided to build my own house. I envisioned it to be a beautiful house, one that I would be proud of. You were a nobody then, not even a junior carpenter. You asked one of my assistants if you could join me in building my house. I gave you my tools and welcomed you to my workforce.
The house was taking shape faster than expected. You were one of my very few trusted foremen. In fact, I rewarded you for good work, sending you abroad to study architecture in America and in Europe.
The house reaped praises from countless publications and interior design awards. It was just too much, quite honestly, way beyond my wildest dreams. I started building more rooms in my house. More and more people joined in -- experts in design, plumbing, landscaping - more seasoned individuals, with more sophistication, creating more polished work.
You became envious of how big and beautiful the house turned out to be and how other people in the team were helping in ways you never imagined. Because of your seething rage that no one could ever comprehend, you started eating the walls and floors of the house that we all built. Underneath the foundation, hidden from me, you infected others, instructing them to do whatever it takes to bring the house down. Because of your tortured sexuality and parochial upbringing, you became the worst creature ever to crawl on this planet.
Fortunately, I had a loyal team, bigger, stronger and wiser, excavating every nook and cranny, extracting your puny inexperienced renegade rodents, crushing them, swatting them, and fumigating the entire property till you and most of your kind were either silenced or rendered utterly harmless.
It’s been three years since you’ve left the underbelly of my house. I’ve continued expanding my home, with my trusted and loyal workers beside me. We’ve become much better than when you were with us. We’ve even travelled the world admiring architectural wonders, to make us better builders.
I hear that you’re just around the neighborhood - as a termite or a closet queen, or both, I really don’t care. Whichever way, you must be leading a very angry and solitary life. I also know that you are still in contact with some of the gnawing mammals in my property that have developed immunity from all the fumigation. I assure you, my duty of house cleaning isn’t over until all of your kind are exterminated.
You and your ilk were never ever on the right side of things. I know so.
Your Creator