-a crazy little post somehow inspired by Vodka and Ground Beef, the blogger, not the substances …
If that is your real name. All I know is that Dear John is how this kind of letter is supposed to begin. Yes, this kind of letter. It’s not me, John, it’s you. At least I’ll do you the courtesy of not using your real name Dick. We’ll just call you Mr. Head n-kay?
You said I was boring. I told you I’d be more spontaneous next time. I guess you ditching me in the toilet paper aisle at Walmart was your idea of fun. When Walmart has a Rollback on Ex-Lax, dude, I have NO sense of humor. So stick THAT right up your regular ass.
I told you I had once been diagnosed with Aspberger’s syndrome. You said, oh really, what is it then love, Aspberger’s or asshole?!? You shouldn’t make fun of mental illness, retard! I got news for ya buddy, beauty is only skin deep, but shallowness goes really deep! You are a name-calling BASTARD!
Two words: HAH!!
Guess it’s my fault for always blaming someone. I’ll give you that. My best friend said it was me. She said, you know how people who are likable are always hated by people who are not likable, right? I said no, I didn’t know that, bitch. She’s not my best friend any more. Her biggest flaw was picking shitty friends. It’s not my fault that I’m not responsible. Dammit.
My friends at work thought you were cool just because you paid for lunch a few times. They love McDonald’s. I need new friends. And I need a new job. Burger King sucks. And for future reference Mr. Head, ordering a hot dog at McDonald’s is really not funny. Not even after the third time. Nossir.
I just don’t know about all this je ne sais quoi …
Guess that’s all for now, write back soon.