Dear Bastards.
I was wondering if you could possibly, just a little bit, maybe, perhaps, fuck off. Not only have you kept me awake until five in the morning every night for the past week, but you’ve turned that kitchen into a pigsty. I get that you probably don’t think I care since I only use the fridge to store Babybel, but we’ve all paid a deposit and you are royally taking a shit on said deposit, setting it on fire, and then cooking Indian food in a frying pan (which — by the way — what?) over it.
You have angered me, to the point of forcing me to write a strongly-worded letter to post to my back-up blog which not even very many of my friends see, let alone you. If you need an some kind of reference point to understand that, I’m about as angry as one of you was last night when he bellowed “I’ve never, ever even hit you! Sober!” at a female he’s somehow tricked into shagging him.
Oh, yes, I can hear that by the way. Congratulations to him on being able to orgasm so quickly. I do wish I could say the same for her.
