Give me anger, hatred, but no pity. Just no pity. I don't need it, I don't need the yarn and wool of pity, I don't need the carelessly constarched and coarse feel of imitation goodwill, and I don't need indulgent pads and scabs of self-serving shreds attempting to feign as plasters to lacerations, as all it does it to lacquer a veneer of wellbeing and healing. In truth, the wound is festering down there; you wouldn't know because you're a sham doctor, a doctor dispensing cures through an authentic leather Louis Vuitton wallet.
