I wish you wouldn’t worry about bad things that I can’t guarantee won’t happen. I wish you couldn’t read so well, and I wouldn’t have to explain the “Future Porn Star” bumper sticker on the car parked ahead of us, outside your elementary school. And finally, I wish you flushed on a more consistent basis. Never let it be said I didn’t have wishes for you.
I’m sorry I didn’t believe you when you said that you told your dad you weren’t supposed to have a brownie, but he gave you one anyway. Even as a three-year old, I think you can see how far-fetched that one was.
You’ve already absconded with one of my siblings. If you think I’m letting you take another, you’re out of your automatic-weapon-loving mind.
For the love of all that is holy, quit butt dialing me from your cell-phone. (And keep in mind that at this point, I still believe your account of what’s happening, and have not yet fallen into the assumption that you are lying, and are instead engaging in an absurdly passive-agressive hobby.) Also, if you could change the ring tone on your phone so that when I call, it DOESN’T play the Imperial Death March?
That’d be awesome.
Dear Smell Emanating from my Kitchen Sink Drain,
What the fuck are you? More importantly, what will it take to kill you?
Yours in Confusion,