What's wrong, Lenore? Why are you so quiet all of a sudden? Why aren't you frothing at the mouth and chomping at the bit to get at me, hmm? Why aren't you just bursting at the seams with the desire to verbally butt in to my life, eh?
Because you seem oh so eager to throw yourself at me when my back is turned. That you just adore coming at me when I'm not looking and trying to blindside me.
You're all ready and raring to go, as your mush-mouthed manager would say, a mare all a-lather, and yet here you are. It's been three weeks since FUF VII, where you stuck your nose all up in my business once again.
But you haven't said a word. Not one peep.
I've been nice. I've been polite. I've been downright pleasant.
For the last few weeks I figured I'd try to play along with ULW management and behave in the way that they reward. The whole Certified Baddie thing was me taking the complete and utter piss out of the whole thing. I didn't think I'd get anything out of it, it was to serve merely as a vessel to bring out the hypocrisy of one Raymond der Vaart.
If it actually worked and I was showered with rewards and praise and offers for brightly colored merchandise, I think that might actually managed to make me think even less of The Fart than I do now.
But I wasn't expecting what happened the moment he walked out to the ring on FUF 7. He came down, opened his mouth, and once he started speaking I felt something within my soul that I didn't think I would ever feel for such a simple, fragile, mortal man.
Hatred.
