Finish.
You're right; as you hold me inches above this shitty white plastic IKEA chair against the wall that faces the driveway that we share with our neighbor in our tiny little kitchen that you've somehow squeezed a dropleaf table into. You're absolutely right; I totally meant to do that thing, that terrible thing with my knee as you were shovelling the forkfuls of food into my mouth against my will as I choked it down in disgust and my stomach protested, about to burst. You're so right; my eleven-year old five foot four inch ninety eight pound self just has it out for you and your six foot three three hundred and fifty pound self and I just couldn't wait for the opportunity to knee you in the sack, right where it hurts between the legs because what could possibly go wrong? You're right; I knew exactly what would happen and that this is where I'd end up with your hand around my throat and your spit hitting my face as you're screaming inches away from my ey...
