First you break up with me. Then you accuse me of stalking you (confiding in a mutual friend that I missed you and emailing you and calling you to BRING ME MY FUCKING STUFF).
What fucking gives? You say you haven’t had time to bring me my guitar and amp. That was three weeks ago. The show you were working has closed and finals are over. Haul your fat ass out of bed load my amp and guitar in your car and bring them to me.
Yes, its May. Yes, its Louisiana. Yes, its hot. Yes, I’m aware that my amp weighs at least two hundred pounds. But, I need it back, asshole.
I would go get it myself, but I don’t have a car and I’m kind of a waif therefore it would be impossible for me to drag it all to the bus stop, load it on the bus and then drag it all the way down the street to my house.
Please, bring them to me.
I ask and I ask and I ask…
I’m finding it increasingly difficult for me to get over you knowing that my prized possesions are in your care and that those things are the last things that bind me to you. And the sooner that I break all ties to you, the sooner I’ll get over you.
So, please, please, please bring them to me.
I really don’t want to have to call the police about this, its relativly petty to what they have to put up with…but I’m at my wits end.
And your a cunt. You’ve always kinda chunky…but, uh, lately you’ve started to fill out a little…HA!
sigh…despite the last statment, I still think he’s gorgeous…*oh just bring me my stuff *…
LP