Go, I implore you, and die in a hole.
I hope you never forget about your intentions towards me, and that the sins of what you yearned for haunt you for the rest of your life.
May you poop your pants on the first day of school—those stupid, skin-tight plaid pants that you thought made you look badass. Seriously, as if. May your all-Nicki Minaj playlist on your iPod burst your eardrums beyond repair. May angry gales sweep elsewhere the killer of my character. May you get salmonella from a rotten pastrami sandwich. May your plane crash and may you get stranded on a desert island full of time warps and crap like in Lost. May your parents pay for four and a half years of college and may you major in something stupid so you can’t get a job. That’s right, unemployment. Feel this.
May you sleep with Salmon Rushdie and enjoy it. May you get shoved off a swing set again, only this time, let the scar be worse. May you let one rip on a date. May you fail the biggest project of the year. May you take your mom to prom. May you be forced to hear Adam Levine reciting the Gettysburg Address. If you ever make a movie, I hope Kristen Stewart is in it. May you go to hell, where you will be eternally locked in a car with Barbra Streisand. And guess what? She isn’t singing today.
I hope my current math teacher is transferred to your school, and by some coincidence you have him for every class. If you ever get rich—by your daddy’s money, of course—may your lover be German, your mechanic Italian, your nutritionist American, your psychiatrist French and your dentist English. I hope that, when you sing along to Glee reruns, your voice cracks. And may your next girlfriend be Taylor Swift.
Sorry about that. Just wanted to let out some steam.













Love—







Hope