Dear Number 4A:
It's so nice to know that someone is out there living out their Sex and the City dreams these days. We all know what a rare, precious thing that is. Spread those wings, girl!
I wonder what it is someone who gets home between 2 and 3 a.m. on weekday nights could be doing for a living that would sustain the rental prices of Manhattan. What makes things even more puzzling is your ritualistic vacuuming between the hours of 5 and 6 p.m. every single day. This is more vacuuming than any studio could possibly need. The frequent packages from what looks to be your mother on behalf of Pottery Barn and West Elm must mean that whatever it is you do, it has not been enough to sever family ties.
Can I speak freely here? I hate you.
Sometimes when I hear you stumbling, most likely on all fours, up to your fourth floor walk up in what can only be a pair of lead boots from an antique deep-sea diving suit, I find myself with a case of hate-induced Tourette's Syndrome. Words I usually reserve for Ann Coulter pour freely.
We are already on shaky ground, friend. But then last night, in addition to all the other pain and suffering you've so deftly doled out, you invited friends over for activities I can only assume were drunken shuttle runs, rounds of 2 lbs lady dumbbell tossing, and handstands.
So as happy as I am for you that you were fully inspired by the 2008 Olympics, I want you to know that I lay festering with rage trying to think of ways I could ruin your life that won't get me arrested. My only relief last night came in the form of your anxiety-riddled Siamese cat, whose unrelenting wailing and anguished meows induced a hate stroke inside my brain so fierce that I knocked myself unconscious with rage.
Maybe one day soon you will fall victim to your own folly (and my hope lies with untreated syphilis). Until then, I will be eagerly awaiting the end of your reign of terror.
Labels: dick move, Empathy for Criminals, How did this become my life?, NYC, Really?, stank, Why My Life Is An Elaborate Cymbalta Ad, wrongness, WTF