January 6, 1999 |
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So, we never got this worked out. WHEN do you want me to come out? If at all. And you know I don't want a pissy little half-assed invite. I expect you to offer me your BEST company if I have to buy tickets to see you. I know how flattering that may sound, but your such a fucking asshole sometimes. How many FUCKING times did I call you, swoon you, offer you MY best when you were an easy drive down the street. I was fun for you all along, with your wife around, behind Barron's back. I do so much for you man. I talk so highly of you behind your back, and you know my compliments are stern and REAL. I think people are starting to respect my opinion too. And after all the compliments and invites and spare pot, what do you do? Send me home, send me home, go home, home Rebecca, no, no, no,no,no. It's all I ever get out of all the good guys anymore. No. So if you beg me. If you really fucking want the mean, bold, wild, spontaneous, sexy Rebecca to come out to visit, then I expect you to respond respectively, boy. Because I could make a visit very interesting for you. Really man. Borrow a dog, get your video and get me fucking the hairy bastard. You could sell it to a cheap porn lable. I want to get so good at fucking dogs that I want to be known on the street as the Muttilater. Rumor has it that this weird fucking twat out in Magnolia will fuck your dog in front of you for $50. (But they say the cash isn't exactly her motivation, if you catch my drift here.) Beastiality isn't really prostitution is it? Is it illegal in Washington state to violate someone's pet with the owner's permission? Hell, I wouldn't even call it violation, because the dog is the one humping ME. You know what I just thought would be something I would like to do before I die? Well, remember how I really want to trash cars? Demolition derby style. Yeah. But I couldn't right use my own car, no? What if I up and decide I want to set the fucker on fire afterwards? How was I going to get to work the next day? I shouldn't tell you this, because just I'm telling you this means I am not really going to do it. If I were to REALLY steal some old beater out of Queen Anne tomorrow, trash it in someone's field, smoke weed in the backseat, then hitch hike home... would I really be writing you about it now? Christ, here is my damn evidence officer. Word for word. But I would like to steal a car some day, then run it to the ground. Yeah. Oh yeah. Just like sex. |
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