Thursday, December 30, 2010

The Worst Love Letter Ever Written

Dear, Julie
Fuck, I fucking miss you. I miss you like the rain misses some
kind of …fucking…I don’t know…some kind of fucking thing that
misses another thing. And that first thing misses that second
thing, like, really fucking bad and shit. I am that first thing. You are
the second one of those two things. I think the first thing was rain.
Sometimes, at night, I wake up and I’m all like “FUUUUUCCK!!!!”
because you’re not here with me. I mean, shit, you know? Like,
the last time we hung out together and I got to batter your snatch
with my nut-splatters. I just keep thinking about that and how we
were fucking so hard and shit. You were all like, “Oh Oh Fuck me!”
and I was all like, “Yeeeeeeeeaaaah!” That shit was dope. Word.
Best Believe!
But what’s fucked up about that shit is that whenever I think about
it, I get all, like, hurtful and shit. Like my heart, you know? Like my
heart gets all gay and shit and it breaks. Can you believe that shit?
See what you did to me, you bitch? You made me a fag and shit!!
But, nah. For real. Like, it’s weird, you know? I remember waaaay
back when we were just like, kids and shit, remember? We used
to just play and frolic in the neighborhood with the other, much
more faggy children. They all sucked. But one thing I clearly
remember from that time is that you did not suck. Your Suck to
Not Suck ratios were clearly leaning in the direction of Not Suck.
This is, as usual, assuming that I am using the word “ratio”
properly. Also, “properly.” I mean, I’m pretty sure that’s a word
that I didn’t just make up. If I did, spread that shit around and tell
people it came from me.
But, yeah. We used to just be kids as we hung out together. We’d
play on the monkey bars down the street at Cherry Park. We’d
run after the ice cream man as his chiming melody triggered a
pav …pav…Pavolovian (?) response in us that made us crave the
tastiness of Mickey Mouse’s severed head on a stick. We used to
pass funny notes to each other in Mrs. Hill’s class. Remember?
Remember all that shit?
We were so sweet and innocent back then.
I have since seen you swallow every last drop of my cum and,
literally, ask for more. Fuck, bro. I fucking love that shit. And I
fucking love you for doing it.
Yes, that’s right, Julie. I said it. Not only do I love that you are
totally willing to ingest every last drop of my seed and then put in
a request for more, but I love you as well.
I Love You, Julie.
I love your hair. I love your eyes. I love the way your ass jiggles
when you walk to the bathroom to douche your pussy after we
bang like two enraged beavers fighting over a stick that we both
want to use in the construction of our respective dams. Any one
of those traits by themselves could get me harder than
Wolverine ’s adamantium-laced bones. Put them all together and
my balls want to explode whenever you come in to the room.
That shit is crazy. No lie. And I have no reason to lie when it
comes to the matters of my cock expanding faster than the
universe. And I mean that literally …well, not the expanding faster
than the universe part. I have no way in telling if that is, in fact, a
factual statement. I failed Astronomy twice yet I only remember
taking it once. Anyway, I was being literal in the sense that you
can literally tell that I am not lying when I say that I find you sexy
because the proof is in the pudding. The pudding is my dick. And
it gets fucking huge when I see you.
Also, I did not mean to imply that my dick may in anyway be
made of pudding. That would be weird. Although, I would not
object to you nicknaming my dick “The Butterscotch Stallion,” for
it both gives you the sinful pleasures that you need; and it is kind
of a dark, mucous-y yellow. Which, by the way, I am very happy
you are not weirded out by. Most are.
Which brings me to the next reason for why I love you: you
accept me for who I am. You understand that I ’m not the
sharpest tool in the place that the tools are kept until you need to
use the tools again. You can look beyond my spiky hair, and
sunglasses that I refuse to take off, and my totally sweet Ed Hardy
T-shirt and just see a guy that wants to be held to the bosom of a
lovely young lass that works at a totally rockin ’ strip joint that paid
to have her bosoms made in to Double-D bosoms, because (in
her boss ’s words) “You’ve got the face of an angel, but the tits of a
malnourished baby.”
You accept that I’ve been unemployed for roughly 2 years. You
accept that before there was a You and Me there was a Me and
Your Sister, and before that a Me and Your Cousin Liza, and, for
one night, there was a Me and Your Cousin Liza and somebody
that may or may not have been a member of your family that is
now dead from a disease that I was kind of worried that I
contracted. (Don ’t worry. I didn’t contract it. I found out the day
after you and I fucked for the first time).
The point of all of this is simple, Julie. I love you. I really do. I may
not be the best guy you can get, and I probably shouldn ’t even be
the guy you have right now, but I love you for that very reason.
You captured my heart and mind at a time in my life when I truly
felt no one would ever want me – a time when I figured that I
would never find somebody to even give me the time of day.
Being apart from you right now is killing me and I can ’t wait until
you return so I can hold you in my arms and just stare in to your
eyes again. I can ’t wait for that day, Julie. I can’t fucking wait.
P.S. – Your butt; is that a hole you be interested in me jizzing
inside of?

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