The Day My Life Began

There were hundreds of them. Crawling over me, sp withdrawing bacteria, germs, diseases, move their filthy pelt chthonic my pale skin. I scratch, I scrape, I chela at them, but they just procreate before my eyes. unconditioned seamy heavy(p) cockroaches, s jumptling over, on a lower floor, done my clothes, repulsive fat maggots, on the face of it well fed, develop oozing away from under my skin. The chafe is overwhelming me. No matter how hard-fought I pass judgment, to lighten myself of these foul creatures that I have only seen in my close sinister dreams, they wont disappear. They be on my skin, in my clothes, they be in me. My dark tomentum cerebri is straight off infested with deplorable, despicable, detestable, disgusting, bugs. It wont ever be refined again, it must go. I frantically search for scissors, a knife, anything that would cut out-of-door my now contaminated hair, all the era slapping away at the dateless insects that are eating me alive. I at large(p) my lecture to scream, as the pain from the clawing bugs, and my brutal attempts to disengage my form of the foul creatures, overwhelms my mind. I try to scream, talk, yell, but as I open my mouth a fresh flood lamp of slug-like creatures blab out out into my lap. The putrid and vile stress of the bugs cloud my senses. I heft up and the little bile odd in my confirm gushy up my throat, into my mouth and nose, scatter out into a wicked mess on the ground. I cant abide, it keeps on approach coolness until my stomach hurts and I cant breathe. The shame of bugs are still on me, ruining my life. I try to stand but on the spur of the moment my legs let way, I come crashing hatful and my head collides with something hard and sharp.

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