Saturday, December 13, 2008

The following handwritten letter was recently discovered on the wintry marble steps of McKinley Hall:

Dear Lisa,

I’m like totally digging the new Old Spice industrial strength deodorant, except it makes my pits burn like flesh-eating acid and I smell like a musty sack of jock straps, but at least my elbows no longer have rivers of sweat streaming past them to my hands, which fuck up my dope ball-handling skills on the playground. No teen spirit here. I’ve also found that farting into my Uggs keeps my hands warm during class, except now my feet are cold without having boots on. I suppose I should get some mittens and then I could transfer them to my feet. Or whatever. I’m just not thinking straight since my freak obsession with The Hills has spun out of control. I’m blinded with irrational rage because Heidi married that stupid fuckwad Spencer, plus I’m slowly getting the sneaking suspicion that everyone’s jobs are fake. Seriously, these girls shouldn’t even be driving.

“You are tearing me apart, Lisa!”


Song of the Day:

Ice-T, “Rhyme Syndicate”

No comments: