I hate you with every fiber of my being. Your existence causes me great pain that I will never recover from. Physically or emotionally. Clown. (Also she got daddy issues)

You smell like a hot summer's day if a hot summer's day was filled with several pounds of expired hot dog meat on a charred, dull grill, and the father of the suburban white family who dragged his kin out to the picket-fence home to this horrifically rancid picnic had never encountered an ounce of charcoal, much less a grill. That summer's day is filled with charred hot dog meat, Marisol. That charred hot dog meat will reside in you.

Your kneecap fragments will serve as an ingredient in my crunchy tacos

I have literally never encountered such a being. A presence, this one is. Please be careful when browsing for a journey companion. This one might fall into your midst. God help you, then.