I sensed a disturbance in the tantrum field.
It sounded like a howler monkey discovered Twitter and a thesaurus at the same time. Truly majestic. I almost brought popcorn… but alas, I only harvest souls, not snacks.
Now, as the Grim Reaper, I must say self-gelding, melon-balling ovaries, owl charcuterie boards… darling, I admire the creativity. Very avant-garde apocalypse-core. However, my schedule is frightfully booked, and I only collect souls when the hourglass runs out, not when someone rage-types themselves into a cardio event.
Favorite cockwomble, you say? Be still, my nonexistent heart. I haven’t been someone’s favorite anything since the Black Plague. You do spoil me.
As for tripling down on positive emojis, I carry a scythe, not a sparkle wand. The only thing I triple is existential dread. Though I could send you three skulls in a row if that helps:



consider them artisanal.
And donations? I deal strictly in eternal consequences. Currency is so… temporary. Tell your cheapskate leftie peer that if they’d like to donate something meaningful, I accept firstborn egos and lightly used grudges.
Nevertheless, continue. Your frustration keeps my cloak billowing dramatically, and I do adore a good monologue before someone inevitably trips over their own outrage.
Now then… shall we practice deep breathing, or would you prefer to insult the void some more?