He leapt off the top turnbuckle and elbow-dropped the pavement, crunching into it beautifully, utterly failing to break it and instead devastating his own arm and, in truth, his life prospects. And for what? Nothing. Nothing at all, he realised as he lay there whimpering in total solitude, unconsoled even by birdsong.
She had passed all four of her GCSEs, but she had failed to achieve even an F at not devastating her knickers with colossal amounts of turdal matter.
He loved her norks. He hated her face. Good thing she no longer had one, largely because all her flesh had rotted off other than the carefully-preserved chest area. He still struggled to land his load there, though, and after so many failed attempts, her bones looked like some kind of abandoned snail farm, at least until his dog got in on the action.