Mood in molasses. The thick dark brown syrup that is seperated from raw sugar. Not a collection of furry bungholes from blind burrowing rodents.

Feeling disposable and useless today. Do me a favor and kick some successfully smug citizen in the genitals. Right now! Do it! I mean it you scurvy mammirammers. And I want vivid written descriptions of how their soft flesh buckled and wrapped around the point of your shoe, as well as the eloquent wails that escaped their lips.