Dear Body,

Hey. Sup. Haven’t seen you in a while. Oh, I guess I passed you this morning, naked, at the mirror. That was kind of awkward. I guess when I take you out and get you drunk like that, bring you home and have my way with you, and then expect you to leave without breakfast it makes sense that you’re kind of pissed. You don’t have to be a bitch about it, though. I already apologized for the rugburns and the dents in your foot. Whatever. You can be really stuck up about accidental shit like that.

This old argument got me to thinking–remember that time that I pierced your nose, and drank that delishish fotie of King Cobra, and you decided that the best retort was to rocket-vomit out of said freshly-pierced nose? Yes, I guess you showed me.

Or that time in high school I forged a field trip permission slip and let Cory Jaworski carve “Slayer” into my back and it got all infected and bloogy, so now what could have been a cool homemade tattoo looks like “Sawyer” and I don’t even know any Sawyers. DAMN, BODY. What the crap.

There was also that one time that I threw a snowball at a car that I (accidentally) packed a rock into and the driver swerved and said I made a hairline crack in his windshield. You could not run fast enough for me to get away from that fucking guy. How could I have known he was one of those classic cars freaks?

And now you have burdened me with children, who are running off so fast I can see their blur lines. I cannot keep up with them, in spite of the fact that their passage through you left me with cool silver racing stripes. Thanks a lot.

So I guess we’re mostly even. I could start being nice to you or like you or something, but then you will probably slap me with cancer or a goiter or something. It STILL hurts to sit on my vestigial tail stump. I resent this ass doughnut.

I’m not even going to get into my muffin top.

GO FUCK YOURSELF,

SJ