Choose life.
Choose a job.
Choose a career.
Choose a family.
Choose a fucking big television, Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers.
Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance.
Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments.
Choose a starter home.
Choose your friends.
Choose leisure wear and matching luggage.
Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning.
Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth.
Choose rotting away at the end of it all, wishing you last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourselves.
Choose your future.
Choose life . . . But why would I want to do a thing like that?
I chose not to choose life: I chose something else.
And the reasons?
There are no reasons.
Who needs reasons when you've got heroin?
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Obviously I don't own anything apart from my own characters, blah, blah, blah... the usual shit you see at the end of things like this about copyright law and all that.