Dear person whose first name is an initial,
Who the fuck are you kidding? No one here believes that when you were born your parents decided to give you an initial for a first name. What, they named you after your great-uncle Acronym? You hear me, M. Night Shyamalan? What’s so damn special about the M.? Is this another one of your fucking mysteries? Did you steal that one from The Twilight Zone too?
Dear spelling of the word “bidet,”
I just spent forty minutes trying to look you up. I ultimately had to ask my dad. Do you know how embarrassing it is to ask your dad how to spell “bidet”? No, of course you don’t. You don’t have a dad. You’re the spelling of a word. You never had a family. No one will ever love you. You will never find fulfillment. Your existence is meaningless. Except for when it means “A fixture similar in design to a toilet that is straddled for bathing the genitals and the posterior parts.”
Dear sixteen-year-old girls,
Stop buying silver Jettas. If you have a silver Jetta, it is important that you either sell your automobile to a confident and successful
heterosexual man or become one yourself. There seems to be a misconception that Jettas (particularly silver ones) are driven exclusively by members of your constituency or effetes. This is not true, as I have recently purchased such a vehicle and fall into neither of these categories. In fact, I not only fall into the category first mentioned, I rule over it as its king. Again, please bury your insecurities in improvement of your own self-image, and please stop trying to assuage them vicariously through the use of a stylishly-accentuated automobile that others may also drive for reasons other than being the substanceless offspring of closeted professional suburbanites.