Run little rabbit, run...

My throat hurts. Not much, but noticable. Oh, I'm not complaining - I'm merely stating facts. It's my thing - let me do it.

You know, the last few days I've probably checked more cooking recipes than I've ever done in my life before. Everything looks delicious and then I somewhere along the way realise that I have to actually cook. That's when I usually die a bit inside. I probably could be a gourmet-chef. If I wanted to. But you know me - I don't want to. I could probably be an olympic sprinter aswell if I wanted to - but that requires effort. I don't like things that require effort.

Why does it feel like my brain is trying to escape through my nose and my lungs through my mouth? Don't they understand that they have to stay inside my body? They'll never make it out alive. I'll shoot them down and while they're begging me to spare their lives I'll tell them how much it pains me to have to do this. I'll tell them how good it was to be with them and then I'll laugh a sinister laughter (does that combo of words even work?) and kill them. All the time looking absolutely gorgeous of course.