Stuck in your sticky stuff, with no chance of escape, I must tell you something I have felt for a long time: I hate your hairy legs and beady eyes – all 8 of them. And I don’t think it’s working out. As you spin my body, your silk covering me, trapping me, I must tell you that I no longer love you, and it’s time we went our separate ways. As you stick your fangs deep inside me, forcing in your poison, extracting my juices, I am more annoyed than ever by the little things, like the way you eat your food. I hate you, and I no longer want to be a party to your web of deception and flies. As you lay your eggs inside my dead, shriveled, bloodless body, preparing another generation that'll make life difficult for the rest of us, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call. It’s over. And I don’t want to be friends. by David Clink from: His name was Gord, and he used to run with the bulls, ©2001  Published by Junction Books