Letter to An Ex (Or, The Stylings of a Bard)

I will see you tomorrow night, which is Friday, which is perhaps today if you're reading this on Friday. I was wondering, as an aside, whether you could grope me a little under the table when we meet. No worries, I could grope you as well, it's truly either/or. I'm a diplomat and a consummate giver.

In other news, I am incredibly fat.  Just truly, horrifically out of shape.  I feel like one of those stay puff marshmallow people, or the Michelin man.  Just fat as hell.  So what to do?

Well, buy jeans with sequins on them, of course!  To direct you specifically to all the fat.  Because nothing is better for fat than gargantuan patches of reflective surfacing.  I'm fat and I have an afro and apparently an affinity for sequins that reflect all the fat.  Such a perfect circle.

Don't worry, kid, I'm not that fat.  I mean, technically I'm potentially morbidly obese.  I guess that's fat.  I guess the morbid part implies death by fat. Okay, I could be dying by fat, I'll admit that.  I could be suffocating right bloody now with all the fat pressing down on my esophagus and other essential parts.  But don't worry, you will still like it.  You can even bat my fat around a little, just not in public. Bat it around and have a fucking free for all, plus there will be sequins! You can check your teeth at the same time you bat all the fat!

I am now going to bed.

After I eat.