Fucking junkie scum.

So, I was doing the laundry today and I found some of your old clothes mixed in with the stuff that no one ever got around to washing.
You fucking sleazebag.
I fucking hate(d) you so much. You ruined my life in the time you were here. Dear god, I can't even fucking put in to words how badly I hope you have an overdose and die. I hope I find you dead on the street somewhere so I can call you the first dead body I've ever seen.
Thanks for leaving all your clothes and notebooks filled with mindless psychotic diatribes and your bike here. If I wasn't so scared that you bled all over that one flannel Old Navy jacket you used to own and by wearing it I'd get heroin and Hepatitis C all over my skin, I would take it. I wouldn't feel bad at all.
I heard from your (absolutely gorgeous, sweet-hearted, Samantha Morton look-alike) ex-girlfriend that you're homeless again. And apparently you stopped in to the bookstore a while ago.
You're pretty, yeah, but it started to fade a while ago, and you'd better start fucking looking for a job and a home before your face starts to get as fucked up as the rest of you.

I remember the nights you'd spend in our kitchen, warning me of the dangers of drugs and tattoos and piercings, slurring your words and falling asleep mid-sentence. Your mind was literally fucking warped at that point. Fucking hypocrite. Get clean, then preach.
Actually, I don't give a fuck. Stay a junkie. You're not gonna get much more treatment for the hepatitis when you're homeless and jobless. Who's gonna drive you to the clinic?

In conclusion, Will Diggs, I hope you fucking die, you scumbag. I can't wait 'til the day I can spit on your shallow grave.
Maybe if you hadn't fucked yourself up so much, you would have been cool.
Scumbag.


(I'm sure some of you remember who this is about.)