Death

I hate the ones that fidget. I completely understand that you are dying, and yes, most likely you are going to spend a good chunk of time being turned on a spit roasted by hellfire, but please don’t squirm. Do you really need me to explain my schedule to you? What with the invention of AIDS, the rise of poverty, and ever-stimulated population growth, my bones are full. It’s bad enough that I have to climb your ridiculously narrow and claustrophobic steps, seriously I’m not in the best shape of my death. Do not plead with me. Don’t wring your hands and summon tears. I won’t make you a ghost you fool. You follow me like an obedient slave and the eternal damnation process won’t be so damn difficult.