Dear Ho-Bag

It's 4:30 in the morning. And although I admire the fact that you're still awake, y0ung pup that you are, I would like to remind you that you live in an apartment, and that the walls tend to be thin.

I gather from your conversation that someone has made you angry. Someone of the male persuasion. I hear "fuck", "fuck you", and "don't ever fucking call here again, you fucking asshole". And then crying. A piece of advice: because you seem so angry with...Brian, you said his name was? Because you seem so angry with Brian, why not try ignoring the telephone each time he calls back? Not that I'm counting, but I've heard it ring 7, make that 8, separate times. You can turn the ringer off, you know. Great feature, that.

And yet, I can't stay mad at you because you inadvertently have made me see the error of my own ways. When women scream out of anger - and most specifically when directed towards men - we sound like hens.

Ahh! I fucking hate you...bawk, bawk, bawk, bawk...asshole...cluck!

So thank you for waking me up so early in the spirit of female bonding.

Also, and truthfully now: if he's made you this upset, I garner it's warranted. So you can just dump the asshole. You may be a ho-bag, but you're my little Ho-Bag, and no one can treat you this way.

Love,
Min