I know who you are and what you stand for. Nothing. All you do in class is raise your limp, sweaty hand and ask questions only designed for you. I’m here to learn. You’re here to waste air.
You’re not even good at sex, in my head. I think instead of pulling out you’d forget how to finish and just spit in my ear or something. I bet when you whimper it sounds like a trainhorn. You’re disgusting.
If neurons were principles, you’d be a Republican. Your personality is every villain blended together, with the saturation and resolution turned all the way down. Or if the primary colors gave up and smoked Newports.
I can hear your shitty lungs coughing from here. It sounds like you gagged on bagpipes along with the rest of Scotland. People laugh at you behind your greasy, slow back. You can’t even walk in a straight line.
Sometimes I say words and you don’t even know what they mean. Clearly, the only time you’ve looked at a dictionary is when one hit your head. Or maybe it was bricks, over and over again? I would’ve written a character about you, but I knew that’d be a challenging read.