Friday October 20th 2006, 4:40 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

Fuck you.

I called you today and you told me you would call me back because you were … “doing stuff.” You sounded so guilty. What exactly were you doing? And whom were you doing it with? Why the fuck did you even answer the phone if you were busy “doing stuff.” Maybe you were on drugs with your friends? Who knows? All I know is that I wanted to borrow the car so that I could take some boxes to Sacramento today, and you’re too busy “doing” something to appreciate me trying to get my life together. Even though moving boxes isn’t really me getting my life together, considering that I just woke up, have a hangover and have to clean the mess I made in my room last night. I came home plastered. After work last night I stepped into the local bar around the corner from Robert’s house. Betty, the beautiful bar tender, who doubles as a mother, was working last night. I sat down at the bar and told Betty, “I have nine dollars. Get me as drunk as you can for that.” She looked at me and laughed, grabbing the Jamison and Bailey’s from the shelf. She mixed together two shots of her delicious concoction and poured me a Stella back. I offered to pay her the 9 dollars but she refused my monetary trade. I was surprised by her generosity—most bars and bartenders aren’t as kind as Betty. It’s too bad she was double my age (I think her daughter is my age); Otherwise I would try to date the woman. It’s a shame that kindness and alcohol can lead to sexual desire. This is why so many female bartenders get hit on. If they smile back at a drunk patron, they are immediately seen as a sex object. When Betty closed the bar, she and I walked across the street to another bar to see if it was open – if so we were going to share a drink together. But the bar was closed and so Betty and I parted ways. I didn’t need another drink anyway. I stumbled home, barely making it to the front door. In fact I slammed my head on the front door while trying to get the key to fit in the hole. The stairway seemed taller than ever as I cautiously maneuvered from step to step. When I made it down the stairs, I let out a sigh of relief into the hallway by my bedroom, I was almost there, I thought. When I stepped inside my bedroom, I put down my backpack and stumbled into the window, knocking over a drum and a cup of change I had been collecting. I crashed into the blinds, which made a loud noise, and fell over onto the floor. After this fall I crawled to my bed to pass out. And this is why I have clean my room today. Whatever. This doesn’t diminish the fact that you’re I don’t have any good thoughts about you right now. Don’t be ambiguous with me over the phone. It just makes me hurt even more.

-Fuck You.

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