My OC CreepyPasta

They're all the same.
I always used to take the blame.
I may be more than insane,
Trying to save thier asses in vain.
They stab me in the back,
Never giving me any slack.
The worst days of my life in the fourth and fifth grades,
I hope those bastards get AIDs.
Leaving myself to self-harm and leave cuts
I will always hate them, no ifs, ands, or buts.
My heart is shattered,
Now my mind is always scattered.
The plastics and the Barbies,
I'm proud that I eat Arby's.
Some even call me fat.
I want to hit them with a baseball bat.
I laugh when they yell 'Home run',
My god watching them die is fun.
Wathcing the beautiful flowing crimson,
Well I guess they should have listened.
Karma is my name.
Slaying bastards is my game.
Watching their heads fall, singing "Pop! Goes the weasel!",
Cackling angrily as I paint pictures with blood on my easel.