better

You are no better than the roaches you associate with. You and your six-legged friends that come out when the lights are dimmed. You scavenge tiny bits and tiny crumbs from the kitchen floor where I cook my work ethic with heated sweat and effort. But you, you come along and take the scraps of everything I have done. And the sad part is that my scraps are 100 times better than anything you can come up with on your own. Roachfucker. One of these days I'll come out in the middle of the night with a can of RAID and flip the intellectual switch that sends your filthy ass scurrying under the fridge. It's a long run to the fridge, and the flat linoleum leaves you vulnerable. You are mine. Maybe I'll step on your head instead of flooding you with aerosol poison. Yes, stepping on your head will be much more satisfying. Crunch.