So there it was. A goddamn box. Why does this fucking matter you might ask? Well it doesn't, so shut the fuck up and keep reading you piece of shit. Well anyways, there it was. The box. Lying right there it front of your face you fucking moron. Yes, this story is about you, you fucking bitch. It doesn't matter who reads it, it's always going to be about the goddamn reader, no matter who the fuck it is. That's how the story works, you moron. It has a multitude of capabilities that span over a wide range of people, so this story is for everyone that fucking reads it. It's in 2nd person point of view. You bitch. So as I was fucking saying, there is a box right in fucking front of you. It's just there. A damn plain box, nothing special. It is average sized and the typical color of brown. K. You are now in your house all of a sudden getting ready for the day. You are having a great debate on what to wear. "This one or that one," you hear yourself say. You make endless trips to the mirror like five feet away to see how you look in different variations of your outfits. As you try on a new outfit you say, "OMG I look soo cute! I think I'm going to wear this today. But first let me take a selfie." ...Yeah, shut the fuck up. Talking to yourself is one of your many stupid habits. You do it a lot. Fucking moron. Are you really that lonely that you have to resort to conversing with your own self in order to not go completely insane? Still, it doesn't help because you remain one crazy son of a bitch, no matter what you do. You are fucking crazy. Estás loco. You are El Pollo Loco, actually. Everyday people go to your shitty fast food restaurant and eat you, you crazy bitch. There's like germs and everything in the salsa and you give people STDs and HIV and Ebola and whatnot. Faggot. Learn some manners, you fucking piece of shit. I swear, you must suck about a million cocks per second. Fucking dyke. What is that, like a world record?
