Canadian beef at Room Temperature

I said, "You're really great, and I really want only good things to happen to you" but then I realized, I lied.

I told him everything. There it was. I spilled my heart out on the ground in front of him, with no regret, and-I admit- optimism for "the story of us." I told him "You're really great, and I basically want only good things to happen to you"

Then basically, some really lame s**t went down and thence I realized,

I lied.

WHAT I REALLY wish for him is that he gets his girlfriend pregnant and is forced to marry her ugly face, he will mask his resentment with false joy. To aid his bravado and denial they get it on often, until they have like five kids, who are all really dumb. And UGLY.

He's forced to settle in a trailer like a colony of E. coli on Canadian beef at room temperature, growing and festering with the most merciless of odors. He begins to realize what a mistake he's made in the past five years and begins to spiral into depression. With sparse hope, the boy attends a life seminar, leaving him suddenly optimistic. He then attempts to concur a life as both a young man and a husband, he pursues college, a career, and his marriage, but fails miserably, crushing his self esteem like the hopes and dreams of his already far-gone future.

Life goes on and his children grow. He begins to look creepy. Fat and gross. He's that one guy with a stain on his shirt, sporting a pedo-stache and a comb-over. It's gross. By this time, I will have won an Oscar and a Tony. He'll think of me then, but pushes my essence away to avoid fueling his regret. Oh festering regret! He grovels in his regret. Hating his life like a ginger step-child.

His little wifey will also be filled with regret. She'll also weigh 500 pounds and walk around the trailer naked with the sex appeal of a hefty bag full of soup. Her drunken laughter upsetting and nauseating like the sound you make when you shove a toothbrush down your throat. Instead of groveling in the pain, or trying to cope by being a successful mother, the flatulent little vapor leaves them all for her own far-gone future, hurting him the way your hand hurts when you accidentally stick it in the paper-shredder.

Then his life goes on, miserably, lasting far too long. He dies a bitter old man in the living room of his mobile home, in his last moments his thoughts tumble in his head, tumbling, tumbling, tumbling, like that ginger step-child down the stairs.

his dumb little baby brown eyes dried up and bulging out of his skull. His life leaves him as he squeezes out his final fart. The stench of forgotten hope still lingering in his living room. His gravestone is written in comic sans.

I also want to punch him in the face.