Dear Shelly,
I should have gotten a clue that our relationship won’t work out
when I start realizing that your boob size is the same as your IQ. But I was
too infatuated with you beauty. You were, still are, perfect. Your hair is
always in place, your make up always the right amount, your dress was always
perfect. You’re like a doll… a talking doll… you talk even without a brain.
Sweet Jesus… when will you ever know that Stratosphere is a layer of the atmosphere before it became a name of an album? When will you ever learn who the Senator of our state is? Talking to a god-forsaken mutilated amoeba has more intellectual benefits than conversing with you.
You are, at best, a stupid anthropomorphic personification of goat.
So yeah, you can say I am sour graping, you can say I am moping,
you can say that I the one broken with our break up. But guess what? You are
the one who is, was and always will be, dumb as any single cell life form.
Kirby
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