You dumb fucking slut,
I feel nothing but pure embarassment when someone looks at you, then looks at me, then looks back at you. I would rather throatfuck a sword fish than like your instagram post, just to avoid the shame of my name being associated with yours. There is no illness, no social plague, no cancer, no conflict, that I would want to cure and remedy more than the parasite that just so happens to be you.
I blocked you on every social media platform I have ever put my email into, yet I cannot stop the harassment of your friendships and bullfuckery. I am unqualified too possessownership of a firearm, and so that is the sole, singular, only reason why I have not yet eliminated your disgraceful gummy vitamin existence from the face of the dying planet. If I had a gun loaded with three bullets in a room stuck with you, I would shoot myself in the nose twice, per nostril.
If I could ever have the pleasure of descending into the depths of hell, there would be two of you at a fancy dinner table, and forever would last three hours, one per brain cell I have left
to kill since I met you. You are more annoying than the white scuff on my black AF1s and you have the personality of watered down, unsweetened tea. You might as well have been water, but you're even more useless the more you fucking try to have substance.
The only redeeming quality you have ever possessed is not being my fermented ketchup dealer, but being the only form of birth control and romance repellent that is 100.2% effective, since I cannot afford birth control because while it is free, it can be illegal. Besides your boot licking, flower slurping, handsoap diluting, warm lettuce eating, gorilla glue drinking, crunchy cookie loving, piano playing, soot sniffing, privacy invading, styrofoam squeaking, well done steak of an existence, the worst personality trait you have is having the fucking audacity to have a normal name, spelled normally, but pronounced
ah-nay-ee.
Open your eyes wide and read my words, ANNE:
Happy Birthday whorè.
Sincerely,