Not even the most potent anecdote could cure me of the affliction of your verbal diarrhea, some noxious slur of not syllables, but gutter. For you are tiresome, a mouth full of base, disquiet, disquieting, some caustic concoction of the vilest.

Surely, you are blessed for such an ability? The air itself is toxic in your midst and I find it little better than to keel over and die, lest your voice inflict some ulcer in my seldom-bothered, hard-to-bother life, some bilious cyst of vomit in my fingertip, better used to gouge my eyes out, lest I blind myself with your likeness, like a jackal spawned of plaque, no softer than sandpaper on the bottoms of feet.

The fact is: you’re shit—no other way—and I can’t afford the time to hear it anymore, bear it anymore.