Greetings from Truthville


My Dearest Darling,

         This letter is to inform you as to why I would rather have a colony of fire ants stuffed into my rectum, and have it sewn up after them, than spend one more day in your company.  I wish that I had the ability to tell you exactly why I spend most of my time praying for your sudden and painful death, but the words to describe my hatred of you have not yet been invented.  I will, however, in my own humble way, try to instill in you why you are to me less than those shiny green flies that eat dog feces.
         To begin with, if your personality reflected on your countenance, you would resemble a performer for Gwar, because your nasty black soul was conceived in the mind of H.R. Geiger.  It was, however the one thing he could bring himself to paint, because that shade of paint (what I like to call “whore black”) does not exist in the good universes.
         Now this is fairly vague, and I hope that the next few pages will help you to understand why you are the worst thing that has ever happened to me.  You, my dear, are why I hate getting up in the morning.
         You are impatient with me.  You nag and plead and bug me until I want to smother you with the teddy bear I gave you for Valentine’s Day.  You remind me, constantly, that tend to be late, and yet, as I recall, I consistently miss movie trailers when I see films with you because you are the one holding us back.
         Speaking of movies, you have the cinematic tastes of a retarded gibbon.  Drew Barrymore movies are not good.  Julia Roberts did not and never will deserve an Oscar.  And I am sorry to be the one to break it to you, but Titanic was a good fucking film.  If a good director came up to you, shook your hand, and told you that he won an award from God himself for being the shit, you would stare blankly into space (not that this is different from your normal routine of dazedness) because you cannot recognize talent when it’s physically touching you, you tasteless bitch.
         While we’re at it, how many Bob Dylan CDs do you own?  Because if the answer is anything other than “none, you idiot, he sucks,” you have too many.  Good lyrics do not excuse Bob Dylan, the Grateful Dead, Drowning Pool, or Destiny’s Child.  And how many CDs do you own that you bought because of a single you heard on a top 40 station?  Well, in that case, you are a terrible person.
         You live like a slob, which I find odd, since girls are supposed to be cleaner than guys are.  You even left the toilet seat up once, which I cannot and do not wish to understand.  You spill things onto my carpet and furniture more than a toddler with three fingers does.  You never volunteer to make dinner, and you never say more than “it was good” (usually after I ask) when I make you dinner.
         On the subject of dinner, I hate being the one to always choose where we go, and also what we do.  It’s not cute; it’s fucking annoying.  How about a suggestion for a change?  That’d be great, because my suggestions are always shot down anyways.
         You are around so much I should charge you rent.  You assume you have some God given right to sleep at my home, which you do not.  You will ask or I will ask you.  And when I say “no,” you should not take offense.  Well, now you should, because lately when I’ve said “no” it’s because I do not want you in my home anymore.  And yeah, sometimes I go to sleep when I shouldn’t.  I’m sorry, I have a real job and since I spent all last night listening to you whine, I’m fucking tired.  On top of that, lately, I want to sleep when you’re around, because the nightmares of my mind are cuddlier than the nightmare of you.
         When I would fall asleep in a room with you and other people who are still talking, you neither quieted up yourself nor shushed other people.  Instead, like the mean-spirited twat you are, you joked about it and said insulting things.  Sometimes I’m not sleeping…and I hear.
         You know I need my sleep, but that doesn’t matter to you, because you keep me up talking or fucking or helping you with homework.  You seem to become very depressed at bedtime, and I get to hear about it from midnight to 6 AM.  This happens all the time anyways, but it sucks worse on those times because you are keeping me up.  The last thing I want to hear before I sleep is NOT your personal history of abuse and neglect by everybody and everything in existence.
         On that note, you have so much baggage it couldn’t be carried by three Arabic camel caravans.  At first I was sorry that God had seemed to choose you, personally, out as his slapping ho.  But now I see clearly that he has every right to target you for torture, because you are more than worthy.  I hope he smites you with boils so bad you actually just become one huge boil, and I further hope the Big Daddy will let me lance you.
         I was sympathetic the first 998,314,126 times you told me your woes.  It isn’t cute anymore.  I am sorry you were raped/beaten up/drugged/whatever.  Maybe if you weren’t such a junkie alcoholic that has a big trash talking mouth and will flirt with anything that’s got a pulse, people wouldn’t do those things to you.  But please, keep acting that way, now.
I also find it amusing that you can condemn me for the paltry amount of drugs and drinking I do.  You have done drugs Amsterdam hasn’t even heard of and as I recall, it was your head I was holding out of the toilet bowl the other night.
         You have a sexual history that reads like a who’s-who of the world of assholes.  And you sure know how to pick them.  From the stories you tell, it sounds like you picked up your last boyfriends as they sorted through the Dumpster outside the asylum.  Your loser-dar has gone off many times, and you answered the call.  I at least treated you decently, until now, because now I want to use you as a piñata.
         You were beautiful, but now your inner self have leaked through your pores and turned you into a mass I can only describe as seething.  You have an overbearing ass that looks like a wet pillow that has been stomped on by a man in cleats, and your thighs are like to bags of Ricotta cheese.  You do, at best, a mediocre job of shaving, and the rugburn I suffered should have received skin grafts.  Your crotch looks like a goatee that fell and is in serious need of some professional trimming.
         Your breasts have the feel of a Jell-O mold in a balloon and your nipples could have their own fetish site.  The slope and size of your tits also leaves much to be desired, and the bras you wear are very, very deceptive.  You own one pair of sexy panties, and the rest have more assorted stains than a football player’s tights.  You don’t wash your genitals well enough, as should be obvious by the flock of seagulls that constantly surrounds you.
         You are a spoiled brat who thinks that everyone somehow owes her something.  It’s your way or the highway, and I am choosing the highway.  Meaning that I am choosing to tie you up and throw you out of my car on a busy highway.
         You are possibly the most conceited human I have ever met.  You believe yourself to be infallible, and think that your shit smells like rose petals.  Whatever you say is right, as you are so clearly the vessel through which God speaks.  Even when you are concretely proven wrong, you will defend your belief until the end because your stubbornness actually flows through your veins.
         Grow some fucking balls!  I am tired of being your goddamn bodyguard and emotional doctor.  I would love to be your light and your salvation, but Jesus had already taken that job by the time I got there.  The “scared little girl” routine is only cute at scary movies, not walking from the car to the house across about twenty feet of parking lot.  People are not after you.  They are not waiting around every corner with guns.
         Your parents own you.  I believe that when I wasn’t looking, you called them to see if it was ok to take a piss.  You wouldn’t buy a candy bar without your daddy’s ok, but that makes sense since it’s his money anyways.  Mommy and daddy love you so much that they have deprived you of necessary life skills by paying your way through everything.  Get a job, or at least a real one.  One where you actually have to work.
         You have two modes – wanting unlimited sex and not wanting any.  I am not a machine, but at the same time, I have needs.  I finally realized that your sex drive is tuned in to mine, and you then desire the opposite of what I do.  I know it’s you and not me because I always want sex, just not all the time.  Although I do value my sleep more than your affection, so let a brotha sleep.
         And would it kill you to give more head?  And when you do give head, would it kill you to do it well?  I’ve seen better blowjobs in cartoons.  Do you practice by putting a banana in your mouth and sticking your head out the window of a rapidly moving car?  Because I am sure that’s how it looks from underneath.  How could someone be so sloppy at anything they do?
         You are a very good lay, however.  So good, in fact, that I think college graduation is a waste of your time.  You could make more money on your back than as an engineer.  You are a great fuck, but a terrible everything else.  Frankly, the relationship has really just been between your pussy and myself for months.  If you could somehow leave it, I’d be appreciative.
         You have the language skills of a kid who can’t make it through Highlights magazine.  Between your grammar, spelling, and general comprehension of the English dialect, you must have trouble signing your checks correctly.
         You are good at math, which is confusing because I always get stuck figuring out the tips.  You are afraid of undertipping, I think, because it is always on me to figure out what’s owed.  That’s ok, though, because you are such a tight fisted miser you would likely send the waiter/waitress/delivery driver home in tears.
         You don’t respect my property, leaving DVDs and CDs all over.  You leave toothpaste gobs in the sink.  And for fuck’s sake, if you’re going to use my computer and remotes, learn how to use them.  I have wasted countless man-hours trying to fix your fuck-ups.
         Your friends are all dumber bitches than you are, and they talk constant shit on you behind your back.  I know this because you talk constant shit on them, and they are worse people than you are, be that possible.  You are fake with them for some unknown reason, and then you all hate each other the next second.
         I don’t like coming over to your place because your place is a mess and smells like you.  Clothes are everywhere, always, and if your roommates are there, my only option will be to burn you all with holy fire.  You have a shitty entertainment center, which consists of a 9 inch TV on a milk crate.  At your house I am even more subject to your bullshit and drama.  I do not like this.
         Assuming you never cheated on me, I know you’ve thought about it.  Don’t fucking lie, either, because I know the truth on this one.  Because I have thought of cheating on you every second of every day since I’ve met you.  Even if you sweated gold, I would still be looking to better deal you all the fucking time.  You are a convenient commodity to me, and like all convenient commodities (toilet paper, for example), you are quickly used, and quickly forgotten.
         The time we’ve had has been a waste in the worst way.  You have made me regret my every waking moment, and for that I would gladly see you hung from a meat hook, you filthy, wretched creature.
         You are way too sensitive, too.  You take everything personally.  However, this time you should, because I mean these words to inform you of what a lowly creature you are.  But when I say, “it’s a sunny day,” this is not a sly comment on your weight.  But since you bring it up, your weight could use some work.
         You can’t take a joke.  Your sense of humor is non-existent.  You think Gallagher is funny, and complain that Chris Rock says “nigga” too much.  Well, fuck you too, because lots and lots and lots of things are funny, even when you don’t think so.
 I write, which is important to me, but you couldn’t care less.  You never go to the site, never ask to read my stories.  I am content in the knowledge that this is likely my first work you will ever have read fully, or at least sounded out.  Don’t be embarrassed if you need help with the big words.  It’s pronounced dum-kunt, ok?
         You’re a Democrat.  You like new-age music.  You like football and Nascar more than I do.  You have the depth of a Dick and Jane story, and the same writing ability.  You never throw down your own weed, but you’re not shy about taking mine.  You never finish the beer I give you, and also paid for.
         You leave shit at my place all the time.  You fuck with my car radio controls.  You whine every second that you live.  You are too short and your feet are in appallingly bad shape.  You think everything revolves around you, which I guess is feasible, or at least around your hips.
         You are petty and mean.  You talk shit about everyone you know.  Nothing I ever do is good enough.  I get better grades than you do.  Your parents treat you like shit because you are a worthless pile of shit and they’re pissed that none of the other ten million sperm made it.
         Your sister is hotter than you are.  Any idea you ever have is bad.  You have no talent for anything you try or do.  You will fail at life and end up fucking hobos for crack in a Los Angeles alleyway.  I am not your taxi, carless one.  You are the world’s biggest klutz, and you have the grace of a blind cow on a tightrope.
         Somehow you always make my friends feel awkward around you.  You are a slut.  I have never met a single person that could stand you.  What’s with the hairy nipples?  You lack any sort of social skills.  You are an idiot when you are drunk, which is often.  You are just as stupid the rest of the time, come to think about it.
         You bring down my day every day.  You hog the blankets.  You laugh like a dipshit.  You tell toilet humor jokes.  You don’t swallow.  You manipulate and use everyone you can, including and especially me.  You will never be truly loved by anyone, because everyone will sooner or later realize what you are.  I am the best thing that will ever happen to you, and you blew it.  And you blew it good, unlike my dick.
         A few words that best describe you are vain, arrogant, stupid, tasteless, cold, mean, conceited, evil, vindictive, stubborn, whorish, unholy, demonic, ungainly, deceitful, harsh, blunt, slutty, dishonest, fickle, petty, uncaring, unfeeling, whiney, cocky, self-righteous, holier-than-thou, cheap, moronic, trashy, useless and worthless.
         A few names I would like to call you are whore, bitch, cunt, twat, idiot, stank-ass-ho, worm, shitpile, hound, slut, black creature, demon spawn, and snake woman.  There are more, but I especially like these ones.
         Death is too good for you, because you might go to hell.  You deserve something worse.  If I could make up the place, it would be a room with you and the truth about yourself and a pair of boxing gloves, and you would constantly fight each other, and…wait, that’s your daily life, isn’t it?  Well, nevermind, I guess I’ll have to settle for hell.
         Life with you has been hell, dearest, and I wish it to be over.  You are the black spot on my personal history, and you deserve nothing if not a slow, painful death.  I would like to slice off your clit with a dull razor.  I want to beat your tits into a 2-D pool on your chest.  I want you to choke on your own vomit the next time you drink.  I want you to burn to death, over hours and hours.  I want to push you down a long flight of stairs, with a filing cabinet right behind.
         Please die, fucking cunt whore bitch.  Please die and take your presence off the earth, because no one here wants it.  You are the most horrid being on this planet, including N*Sync.  I pray for your death daily, and this is a personal plea to you that you kill yourself in the most horrible manner you can think of.
         I wish I could say it’s been great, but the truth is the thought of that is making me laugh.  Thanks for teaching me the definition of cunt.  No one on earth, ever, has been less to me than you.  Please do everyone a favor and stop being alive.

          Hating you,
           Robb