I can't emphasize enough the fucking craziness of this book.
And if a box is labeled "toxic metals," no one expects you to eat it. Yet here you are, demented and trying to convince everyone that umbrellas and civic duty are a young man's game.
It seems like the cute, joke part of this one got left out. Or maybe this self-help author was simply in a lot of pain and wished they would die. That's understandable, but it also may be the worst anyone has ever been at their job.
It's my natural instinct to make fun of someone shitting in their own pants, but not when they write this well. Terrific job, author.
Whoa, two pages ago, this author watched the last of his or her enemies die. Have they killed again so soon, or has one of the other three writers taken up murder? Shouldn't all of these similar entries about dead people have been caught by the book's editor? Unless ... my God, they killed him.