Today I was asked three times what I need for the up and coming big day. I said, a gun and six poison bullets. Because four doesn’t hurt me at all. The fifth will most probably give me the shitcramps. And the sixth is a mercy kill for the one holding the gun. Which basically boils down to the fact that I am still immortal. Because that’s probably the funniest thing to do after I’ve been basically told that what I waited for three years is not going to happen. Cheers.