Home is where the heart is, as they say Francis, and your unfortunate "home" above the kebab shop with its greasy aroma and simmering undercurrent of violence is lonely and devoid of heart of any sense. This is because you're a vile cunt and everyone you've ever known has rejected you or are more likely dead, from suicide, or possibly cancer that leached from your base nastiness.
Your crystal ball has a glitch; stubbington peckerwood is an orphan, the bastard son of Lympstone who possesses basic contempt and compassion in equal measure for my species. I fear your humanity went long ago thanks to tragic circumstances. Please don't bore us with them because most would probably laugh.