Dear Kat (*goodie-two-shoes):

I don't really know how to tell you this, but I dislike you. I think I realized it when I threw up with George Bush and his wife and I saw you sit on my Kid Rock collection. I'm sure you're middle-class enough to understand that Santa dioesn’t exsist. I'm returning your false teeth to you, but I'll keep the oil stocks as a memory. You should also know that I never liked to ruin the Second World War.

Fuck off now,
Claire

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