I'm sorry your car got broken into. It's not fair and it must suck. I could even excuse you for being a royal fucking bitch today—you certainly deserve a little slack the day after your car window gets smashed and all your CDs get stolen. I could excuse you, that is, if you weren't such a cunt ALL THE FUCKING TIME. We're supposed to be so goddamn close, but all that means is that you consider me your own emotional punching bag. So your dad has a brain tumor, does that mean I have to put up with you being a bitch EVERY DAY for the last three years? (For the love of God, he's had it for 12 years, and he's still going strong!) Three years ago you actually had the ability to have a good time. You smiled once in awhile. Then suddenly one day you decide to become all angsty and gothlike, ONLY WITH A SENSE OF FASHION. You dress like a white-bread Christian yuppie, but your attitude stinks like the steaming pile of syphilitic diarrhea you are. You get mad when I don't invite you to go out with "the group," but you hate all the things I want to do, and you sure as hell let me know. So you want to know why I didn't invite you to the humongous, throbbing, sleek, sexy, wild fetish ball in Vancouver for New Years? BECAUSE I DON'T WANT YOU THERE!