I am undead, but I’m autistic.
When I point out that it’s very, very hard to kill the Undead, I’m not taunting you.
I may be indulging my desire to be mildly pedantic, but I’m not taunting you.
If you didn’t want me to keep coming back
and coming back
and coming back
and coming back
you,
um,
shoulda just stayed my friends and not stabbed me in the back, you know?
You knew me.
You knew I wasn’t ever, ever going to stop.
And all you did was become more sick, more foolish, more insane, more spiteful, and more hateful.
You, um.
You think you can really really hurt the Undead?
You can. But it clearly hurts you, too. If I cared about either thing, I’d think I was winning.
I care about making stuff. You care about destroying stuff.
You can seriously hurt me until I’m dead, friends.
It can’t possibly hurt as much as being you.
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