I am a vessel of woe. I spend my days afloat dark and dreary seas of despair and misery. My beloved Great Britain is broken. It is dead. I have cried my tear ducts dry. There is nothing left.
The totalitarian thought police have taken over my green and pleasant land. The cultural Marxists are in control. It doesn’t even seem to matter if they only exist in my imagination. I am so unhappy and depressed. I long to die.
Britain has failed. All about me is anguish. You can’t say boo to a goose. I tried. The goose had me charged. I need Prozac. Once beautiful England is a necropolis. It is full of utter dejection and melancholy.
Foreigners everywhere. Nobody goes to church anymore. The Tories are weak, liberal pansies. No one seems to listen to me or even notices that I am alive. I never seem to get my own way. I hate modern music. Young girls dress up like harlots. I should probably get paid more money.
Everyday’s the same. I wake up. I sit down to write about my once wonderful country. I shake with grief and great lumps of sob rise and pulse in my throat. Men are marrying men. Women are marrying women. Dogs are marrying badgers, probably.
I wish I were dead.