The only reason I won't even attempt to plan your murder is because I'm sure with my luck I'll get caught. It's not that there's the slightest doubt in my mind that you're a useless piece of shit who doesn't deserve to live; it's that it would be such a tragedy for me to spend the rest of my beautiful life in jail for a piece of shit like you. If you were Fidel Castro, or some other horrible dictator, you'd be worth killing, but you're a fucking nothing. How do you justify going to jail for killing a roach? How could I ever live in a cell for the next 25 years knowing I ruined my life for a piece of shit like you? That alone would kill me, and in the end would make you the winner. I can't let that happen. I have to take your abuse and terrorism until we can sell the house so we can afford to get out of here. Not knowing when the house will sell and when our hell will end is getting the better of me. I don't know how much longer I'll be able to survive your immature antics. The police won't do anything, and I feel defeated. I hope you fucking die hard. I hope your mother dies. I hope your girlfriend lives so she can suffer the pain of having to work to pay off that tricked-out Mercedes with the tinted windows. I fucking hate you.