SIMONE! OH GOD SIMONE! I hated you so for going back to Isaac. But I hate you even more for dying on me!!! What were you thinking? You knew how devastating this would be for me! How could you do this to me?
If happiness were a mountain (I don’t see those very often, I live on the plains), and my normal emotional state was a ditch on the side of the road, then the state I’m in now would the 9th level of Dante’s Inferno (I’m like, so intellectually deep. I’ve gotta occupy my time somehow what with the lack of sex, drugs and alcohol)! This feeling is worse than any cumulonimbus I’ve ever encounted in my life. This is more like…smog! Los Angeles smog! Oh how metaphorical I am. I guess my self-loathing makes me that way.
Death. Sadness. Mourning. The only comparable feeling would be having one’s nuts in a vice. A person who doesn’t like nuts, that is, who doesn’t want to make a mess with nutshells all over the place from nuts he wouldn’t eat (nuts are kinda like meat. They have protein so I can’t eat them. Would go against my vegetarian diet (I guess)).
The Los Angeles smog of mourning is overtaking me. My heart as shattered as an emo kid’s teeth who gets punched in the face as a result of some clownbag hardcore dancing and punching air (that happened to me once. God why do hardcore dancers have to dance so violently when they could have just as enjoyable a time swaying to the music with melancholy?).
There is one thing, however, that eases my pain. And that’s a rousing match of tennis. When helping people and nurses baby animals back to health doesn’t work, the only thing that will is tennis. There’s nothing like the rhythmic stroking of balls to get your mind off of things. This time, though, it didn’t help.
Oh such depression I’m in! There was only one other time that tennis didn’t make me feel better. And that was when one of my ex girlfriend’s called me and told me she was leaving me to elope with her Latin lover, Ricardo right before I was going to start playing in the French Open. Here I am, pouting.
Why is it that Latinos are always stealing my women away from me? They’re either eloping with them, or shooting them twice in the chest at close range. Why? Why must they be so cruel?
Well, I’ve got my set of rusty razors ready. I think I will slip into the sweet abyss of death. Wish me luck.
Sincerely,
Peter
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