If it's not one fucking thing, it's another. Fucking Writer showed up again today. He'd dumped a bunch of flowers in our motel room, then snuck up behind us while we were getting our shit together to get the hell out. The sick son of a bitch was trying to play with us, jumping around and using his Loop bullshit to make sure we couldn't stop him. As satisfying as it was to stab and shoot him repeatedly, it lost it's charm when the motherfucker just kept getting up.
After a bit of that we decided to switch tactics and just get the fuck out-but the bastard had dumped a fuckload of flowers in the car, so we had to dig them out so the pedals and seats were accessible. There are still random flower petals everywhere and the whole car REEKS of perfume. Writer followed us out to try to taunt us while we tossed the flowers out of the car, and I'm pretty sure Sloth pissed himself at one point, but we managed to get out there without much further trouble.
YOU LOSE AGAIN YOU TWISTED JACKASS. BITE ME.
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