(clearing throat)...Words say it all, indeed.
Dear Lester,
I thought this letter may be of use to you. When he lost his blog, I had the honor of receiving his letters directly. Every day. He never has to worry about pageviews this way. It's no use calling him self-seeking. He's married himself over there.
The Girl from Ipanema.
And what's this?
Dear Babe,
Hello, my deer. I miss you deerly. Today I was reminiscing on a bug, those days I'd awake to find I had been yelling at you all through the night. It brought a bittersweet smile to my face. I know you love me still. Let's get naked. Alas, my health is failing. After years of abuse, due fully to my decisions, depravity, and nerves, my body has broken down. I had planned to wrestle Lester, to decide the fate of all my blogs. I am willing to give it all up now, all my letters to you, my sweet ramblings and...and...and the research, the marathons...if I cannot pin him. Oh babe, he'll beat me so bad. I miss you. What's your social security number? If he challenges me, with my pride, ego, and self-absorbtion, I cannot decline. And he'll win. He'll iron me. Lester is really virile, an agile magnanimous cow. Once he has all my blogs, he'll be a bull. There will be no stopping him—An Adonis with dentures. He'll never have to squat again.
Those who remain around me, who know of my lessor hobbies, they say give it to God or seek therapy, but first have coffee with me so I can bombard you with suggestions. I want to bombard you with my kisses. Sorry I ruined your credit. They impose their will and guise it as another's. The psychologist is greedy and inept, the real goat; and God wouldn't waste his time, not for a goon with a shin splint.
I will forever write you,
EatKhash
(as long as Lester doesn't pin me)
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