By the time you read this, I'll be blowing your best friend. I'm sorry for doing this but, it fulfills my sadistic fantasies. I know this might comes as a bit of a shock to you - especially because you're such a materialistic self-absorbed bitch. But I'm sorry – I just need hot sex with someone who isn't a human potato sack. I think you're a psychopath, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not compatible. You're a German Scat Aficionado, and I'm vastly superior to you. You like declawed rodentia colonics, you eat with your feet, and enjoy Aqua Velva, and I don't like confessing my love for any of these things. Your favorite movie is Patch Adams, and your favorite band is N SYNCH. Do you even know what my favorite movie or band is? I once asked you what color my eyes are and you said "Nuke me some fucking hash browns!". Anyway, I want to date an entire troupe of Chippendales. But you know what? I still want to be dead to you. We can totally file restraining orders . We had some good times, or so it looks on the videotape (even though I'm passed out) . But please, don't get all John Wayne Gacy like last time. That means no holding my parents hostage. And look - I won't even make an issue out of the $37,229 you owe me, or the fact that you punched my grandmother. So take care of yourself - and O.D. on Botox.
Stop Calling Me,
P.S. It’s barely 4 inches - much less six.