For the past few days, I haven't been able to write. A condition I suffered as a child - pompholyx - has come back to haunt me.
Pompholyx affects the fingers and toes in the form of small bubbles of water and it is very itchy. As the onslaught receded, I was besieged by an infection of the affected areas, making it painful to type.
Idiots will of course cry supernatural bullshit to tie the infections to my activity making fun of Holy Gods such as Anwar and other bullshit fuckers.
So, as a precaution, tonight I am summoning golden-scaled dragons to my aid. These supernatural beings will kill all the family members of anyone who ever slighted me, leaving my enemies alone and desolate in a cruel, cold world - eventually culminating in their suicides. Suicides which I will include in my Individual Eleven master conspiracy.
Writing all of that made me rest for a few minutes, so that is the pain threshold I am facing right now - a few hundred words, then rest. This is better. Previously, I couldn't even type.
Ah, tonight, I shall have to dance - contemporary ballet - to summon the dragons. Using their arcane energies, I can then regain my speed in writing.
