Friday, June 15, 2007
Open a letter, open up a can of who gives a crap
Dear Friend that I had to"break up" with a while back:
Today on the news they said that someone had gotten stabbed near or at (the info was vague) where you live. The suspect then set fire to the apartment, for whatever reason.
I immediately thought that the suspect in question had to be you, the incident probably a result of an angry booze and drug-fueled binge. That, or you pissed someone off while in the previously mentioned state and you were, indeed, the victim.
Sorry I assumed it was you, but I still don't want to hang out anymore.
Dear Jane Magazine:
On your cover this month: The words "awesome" and "skanky", the phrase "ways to rock summer", and the promise of "45 hot guys" and "18 life changing concerts".
While I think you are smart, funny, and cute, the fact that your own editor (who looks way older than me) stated that this particular magazine is really just for "20-somethings" tells me that you and I may not be the perfect fit we once were.
Our relationship just isn't working anymore. I think we need to go our separate ways. You can keep the fuzzy animal barrettes and skinny jeans, and I'll take the cheap but cute heels and the travel advice.
We can still be friends, I promise we'll keep in touch. Hell, there may even be a booty call in there somewhere (you are one of my dirty guilty pleasures). I just can't keep going on as we have. You don't appreciate me for who I am, and it's obvious you think I'm getting too old for you.
Maybe I am.
Though, I'm quite sure I have more disposable income than many of your "20-somethings", and I buy clothes & beauty products in mass quantities like a good consumer whore should, and I can bet I easily spend three times the money they do eating out and boozing at bars.
I challenge any of your "target demographic" to a hamburger-eating contest. Let's see who's the superstar then, bitches. Or better yet, a whiskey drinking contest. I have YEARS on your wimpy-assed tolerance, little girls.
it's clear you have moved on. There's nothing I can do except take my pride and go.
I think when the subscription runs out, so does our time together.
Dear newish laptop of mine:
If you don't stop making the cursor jump a(oops, there it goes)round randomly while I'm typing, and if you don't stop ran(shit, again)domly deleting sentences and whole passages,(I am retyping the next items as they were just deleted and I screamed yet again) and if you don't stop refusing to add the letters I KNOW I ty(there we go again)ped...
I will kill you.
At the very least, I think you may be going back from whence you came, or wherever they put bad, untrainable computers like you.
The computer "dog pound", so to speak.
I hope you get put down when you get there, you asshole.
I know that I haven't paid any attention to you in, oh, the last 4 months. And I know it's summer. And I know you look like someone beat you with a hammer. And I know that you have the potential to not look like the feet of someone trapped in a cave filled with sharp rocks and puddles for 10 years.
I know you can be pretty, I just don't care right now.
Maybe tomorrow I will.