Fool.

Do you realise if you were as good at writing essays as you were at making up excuses to make yourself feel better for not doing essays and therefore leading to a probably fail.... you'd be an HD student?

How bout that.


Fuckhead.

Dear Fuckhead,



How dare you spike my friends drink. How dare you spike anyone's drink.

You're pretty fucking lucky I have no idea how to get my hands on you.

Because if I could, I would literally cut off your balls and stuff them up your own arse. Maybe that's a bit extreme and disgusting but you are a worthless piece of shit

Dear Economy,

Stop being so fucking naughty. I'm sick of hearing about you in the news all the time. You're like a bad celebrity that can't keep their bits in their undies.

Dear Miss Barista,



Fuck you for putting full cream milk in my skim flat white this morning. Yes - i could tell the difference you lazy moll. Pouring it down my throat as I dashed to tute was like devouring a whole tub of rich cream and as such the caffeine did nothing to make me feel better, instead I felt ill all day as my poor guts tried to cope with the onslaught.

Dear Fuckhead.

Do not think your status as 7/11 store night manager gives you some sort of authority.
Do not, upon realising this, take out your remnant teenage angst on the customer.
We should be friends. There should be a mutual respect going on here. You provide me with what I want and I, by visiting your particular and handing over my shiny banknotes to your greasy hands, are giving you what you want.
But fine. Be a fuckhead if that's what you want. Refuse to believe that ID is my ID, despite the fact it looks like me apart from the fringe and the other guy working with you confirms it's me, force me to pull out every form of identification in my purse and yet still insinuate that I have stolen this wallet from some poor girl who just happens to look exactly like me. Snatch my money from my hand when you do finally realise the stupidity of your sick game. Slam it in the till and storm off. Be a fuckhead. WHATEVERRRRR.....

Dear Jared,

Fuck you for being so amazing in every way, and yet not inside me.

To: Albert Hammond Jr.

I still haven't really forgiven you for missing Splendour last year.





that is all.

Dear Gym,



Stop calling me.

I'm never coming back.

Ever.

I endured as much old lady sweat and vagina smell as one can handle and frankly, if I'm going to get off my arse and work up a sweat myself I would rather do it outdoors, goddam walking my dog.

Besides my extreme dislike for the place, I'm pretty sure the free membership (the only thing that got me in there in the first place) would have expired by now and I don't really feel like handing over money to use your sweat-stained machines that cause my body what I see as unnecessary pain.



Goodbye forever, unless god forbid I wake up one morning and read 100+ on the scales. In which case I probably wouldn't actually come back but go on a reality show for fatties and try make some money out of my predicament.

Dear Fuckhead,



Please do something about the abominable mess you call a bedroom. Seriously, it's getting ridiculous now. It particularly affects me because I have to live in there with you, and I'm getting worried about catching a disease or developing a nasty skin rash. Thankyou.



P.s. and throw out those godawful Clearwater Crossing books already.