Dear Carmen,
If your letters are to continue in this vein I’m going to have to ask you to start correspondance with another paradoxically abstract concept. I can’t do it anymore. It’s only been two weeks. Ironically, you’ve sabotaged our site traffic. I’ve had to postpone inviting all of my friends and coworkers to our 1000 Site Views Get Together/Self-Aware Sweater Party. I’m not convinced we’ll reach that total by the weekend (Hits have begun to fester at an already unbelievable 913), and every day the RSVP window shrinks as my hatred for you grows like an inversely-proportional puffer fish.
You have some serious yourself to get over. For serious. Your previous letter was unrepentant, trite nonsense. Do you expect me to believe that automobile traffic in your hometown drove you (pun) to your untethered dipsomania? Instead of placing the blame upon your innumerable psychoses, delusions, and crusts upon mantles upon cores of repressed subconscious mire, you have opted to demonize traffic lights. Surely this is the rationale of a frightened, bewildered individual, or a drunk. It makes sense but I wish so wish it didn’t. Nothing awaits you but a headlong dive into a sharply-walled crevasse of suffering and pain. My thoughts and prayers are coming at you nightly.
Happy Belated!
Sincerely,
Reality
baby pictures of famous dictators 