Dear Person Who Made Me Cry,
It’s at moments like this one that I hate myself for not going to Voo Doo Tech when I had the chance back in the 80’s. Even though I have never seen your penis, I am reasonably certain that petite though it must be, it could only be enhanced by the presence of some gargantuan genital warts.
Hence my need for some vocational Black Magic skills.
Whether you are in the same room with me, on the phone, or sending me another of your agonizingly tedious emails, you have a way of letting me know that you know how very much I want you.
While it’s true that I can hardly keep myself from throwing you to the ground and making sweet monkey love to you while begging that you regale me with another of your completely unfunny stories you think are worthy of David Letterman, it is only for the sake of my marriage that I somehow resist you.
You with your thinning hair and tall forehead, how could I, or any female for that matter, resist your swarthy charm? The way your shorts rest just underneath your nipples. The way the giant Abercrombie t-shirt you are hoping hides your Santa-like physique doesn’t. Oh to be your lover so that I might while away my days feeding you grapes and vats of gravy.
Although I try to reserve my use of the word hate for the truly wicked of this world, like the brutality of war and Angelina Jolie, I can say without reservation that if you were fully engulfed in a raging fire, no doubt started from the Fry Daddy in which you certainly prepare everything you eat…
and you were begging for the sweet relief only death could bring…
and I had consumed 32 Big Gulps in under an hour…
I would sweetly wave good-bye to you and do the pee-pee dance as I set out walking in search of a dirty service station bathroom.
So I guess what I’m saying is this. I don’t like you. I don’t like anything about you. If my thumb and pointer finger were magical, I would squish your head. You are a mean person and whether your Horned Master explained this to you or not when you sold him your soul for a case of Snickers, mean people burn in Hell for all eternity.
Not my rules. Shoulda read the fine print.
And one more thing, you sorry pig nut licking piece of snake excrement, here’s a little something you would do well to cross stitch and hang above the sofa in your lair. Every time the OCD Chick cries, an angel gets her jollies by removing one more hair off your cone-shaped head and putting it on your humped back.
I’m done crying now.
Copyright © 2004-2006, Sherri Bailey
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