I am too lazy to send out any letters (again). So I will just write them here (again).
Thank you so much for having the three dollar Creme Brulee on your dessert menu. It tasted sublime. Experiencing delicious creme brulee at Houlihan's of all places was like getting the best sex of your life from a crackhead with no teeth, but I appreciate it.
Dear Jersey City Meter Maid,
Thank you for telling our neighbor "If I have to work on a Saturday then they are getting this ticket." You are a shining example of what a cop should be. You make people feel safe and happy. By the way, while you are working Saturdays, your husband is banging your best friend. Because she's not as much of a bitch as you.
You suck as a candy.
I had a sex dream about you a few nights ago. But as with all my sex dreams, the sex was just implied, versus actually engaged in. We ran around my aunt's mansion (which was green and straight out of a Roald Dahl book) then finally ran across the train tracks in her backyard to an old church. There, in a confessional with a plush, puke green carpet, I assume we did it. Afterwards, I looked up over your shoulder and there was a woman hanging by her neck from the rafters. So we ran like hell and then the ghosts of a bunch of Revolutionary War-era people who had been lynched started chasing us, like the ghosts in The Sixth Sense. Yes, I'm a freak and my sex dreams are awful.
And on a real life note, I'm sorry you walked in on me standing in your kitchen in my underwear, at 4 in the morning, shoveling White Castle french fries into my mouth like they were manna from heaven, while everyone else was passed out in the living room. You were very blase. I walked in on one of my friends once while he was in the shower, and stood there frozen for awhile, until I finally said "Um, I thought the shower door was more opaque than that" then left.
Sorry about that by the way.
Dear Antonio Banderas,
I was wandering through Target the other day and...
Really? Is this part of the fallout from And Starring Pancho Villa as Himself?
I still hate you but no longer hope you die. That would be too easy. Instead, I hope you're given a hundred thousand paper cuts, then covered in sea salt, then bathed in vinegar, then set on fire. And after you stopped, dropped and rolled, I hope you're set on fire again. Also, I hate you and hope you die.
Dear Rich People,
Can I have some of your money? I really need it. Thanks.
Soon I will be leaving you. And you will miss me, like they all do. While we're together they think "God, she's such a fucking bitch. If she talks smack to me one more time I will knock her upside her smarmy little head." And then after I'm gone, they realize that sanity often comes for the price of boredom and they miss me. That will be you Blogger. I have been faithful to you for four-and-a-half years, not counting that tiny indiscretion when I flirted for a minute with Livejournal. In return for my love, passion and fidelity, you've rewarded me with increased server outages and an inability to categorize my posts. One day you will look back and think... "She was a bitch, but she was MY bitch and oh how I miss her."
Dear Neighborhood Kids Who Curse Me and Throw Bottles At My Dogs,
If I could get away with it, I would pick you up and punt you into that yard with the two Dobermans.