Do You Smell Meatloaf?

Dear Tuna,

I’ve been meaning to tell you this for almost 15 years now. You’d think I would have let it go, but you’ve become sort of a paradigm of irritation for me.

The thing is, I hate you. No, really. I never liked you, and I’m mystified as to how I managed to spend so much time with you. Perhaps it was latent masochism, or maybe I just enjoy a good sideshow. Probably both.

I hate all the stupid things you did. You used to trap me in your room while you smoked cheap cigarettes, then empty a can of Lysol to cover up the smell. I probably have cancer, you bitch. I hate that you used to fuck your retarded neanderthal of a boyfriend on the floor next to me while I played Nintendo. I hate that you let him slap you around and then showed off the bruises like they were battle scars. And, you know, micro-minis shouldn’t even be made in your size. What were you thinking?

I hate your family. While he is a fascinating experiment in biomechanics, your dad is still just a fat man with his ass permanently grafted to La-Z-Boy. Your mom… where do I begin? Obviously, your life skills have sprung from this fertile source. The memory of her screechy voice yelling your name over the house intercom still wakes me at night. Unfortunately, I can’t comment on your half-brothers for fear of litigation, but for the sake of all that is good and pure, I hope all that shit isn’t really true.

Anyway, just thought I’d write to say hi.


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