I like to count the peas I peel – see if they surpass the amount of lives I've gotten on my hand. There should be no peaceful retirements for executioners and I don't wish for it. Not after the lies of gentle rearing before the mercy of quickest, cleanest carnage. Mercy shmercy, it's honestly only self-serving. And the mice died by hundreds, as I predated their souls from the top of the pyramid. Ether's a respite from the life of testing animals before I squeeze all that blood and asphyxiate them from inside. The virtue of science is a vice for those who pay for the wishes of the sentients in cash with their little flesh. And here I am again with meagre peas on a plate of meatloaf. How bad that this contrition doesn't even make me a vegetarian. I know the light at the end of my tunnel is neon. Hell's radioactive for people with the best excuses.
July 2024
