Every word under the sun, bundled together in a bilious, blistering bonfire, wouldn’t even come close.
Given my love of words, I could doubtless find delight in denigrating you – but what would be the point? The delight would be perverse; the time, wasteful.
For insecure, I may be; but foolish, I am not: I know that like the rancid undercurrent of yesteryear which today feels so emboldened, you will be forever waiting for an opportunity to strike.
You may never be a shrinking violet but you will always be unwelcome.
And I’ll always come back swinging.