An Open Letter to Desperate Pickle

Listen you know nothing know it all, you sad excuse for a clown, you shabbily bearded son of a king or an arc builder or a destroyer of sons or however you define your silly ancestors: you stop right this minute. I'm serious. That's...that's plenty outta you.

You can't hold a man to everything he writes, let alone individual things he writes! For instance, when I wrote you that letter and left it under your pillow and tried tickling you awake so I could watch you read it, did I hold your hand betwixt my thighs like I "wrote" I would in that letter? Bad example. You hadn't read it at that specific point in time. If you had though....think about that.

And another thing: is this really the forum to make snide comments about words I write in full view of the world? Couldn't you have politely texted me via cell phone or instant message to let me know your disapproval? Oh no, you had to be all included to show people your keen memory of every word documented in your homoerotic make-believe world...

The point I'm trying to make is that I REFUSE to go back and read anything I wrote on this weblog until the court or some kind of intervention forces me to face some of the awful secrets I've unveiled, which incidentally has cleared most of my conscience and allowed me to become the happier, riskier, slightly more tanned individual that I've always dreamed of being. So stop trying to make it happen.





FYI: I coulda rap-battled that whole thing.