Dear Blowhard,
I feel compelled to inform you that you no longer bug the hell out of me. In fact, I've come to realize recently that I feel more sympathy for your plight than I feel contempt for the space you occupy in the world. It must be terribly lonely to know that you're taken with such little regard and respect that the your only friend is your own voice. And while I consider that voice worse than air pollution or cigarette smoke blown directly up my nostrils, unfortunately short of stuffing a sock in your talk-hole, there's not much I can do about your right to breath. Your perseverance to keep on yapping is greater than my will to muster up the effort to clam you up, so I'll be saying, so long.
Unlike days prior, when I felt obsessed to do everything in my power to discount your every dumbass word, I pretty much don't give a crap any longer as to what you have to say--period. Not that I gave much of a tinkle before, but for some reason, you grinded on my nerves with such annoying consistency, I couldn't help but feel the need to pay you mind. Our relationship was sort of like stepping on a nail; I couldn't help but have to take action. No longer, though. So spew on and on. It doesn't matter.
The fact that I'm even addressing you here makes me cringe somewhat with embarrassment, but so be it. I'll deal with that later. But you talk too much for me to take seriously. You talk too much for me to continue filtering out the good from the moronic. You talk so much, the only ones listening are the other blowhards. There was a day when you suckered me in, but I'm free now. I've seen the light. I've been saved. Salvation is here. My time is too valuable. I've important matters to tend to, like washing dishes, picking up dog poop, sweeping the garage floor, and shining my shoes.
Now, if you'll excuse me, piss off.
With absolute sincerity,
Me
I feel compelled to inform you that you no longer bug the hell out of me. In fact, I've come to realize recently that I feel more sympathy for your plight than I feel contempt for the space you occupy in the world. It must be terribly lonely to know that you're taken with such little regard and respect that the your only friend is your own voice. And while I consider that voice worse than air pollution or cigarette smoke blown directly up my nostrils, unfortunately short of stuffing a sock in your talk-hole, there's not much I can do about your right to breath. Your perseverance to keep on yapping is greater than my will to muster up the effort to clam you up, so I'll be saying, so long.
Unlike days prior, when I felt obsessed to do everything in my power to discount your every dumbass word, I pretty much don't give a crap any longer as to what you have to say--period. Not that I gave much of a tinkle before, but for some reason, you grinded on my nerves with such annoying consistency, I couldn't help but feel the need to pay you mind. Our relationship was sort of like stepping on a nail; I couldn't help but have to take action. No longer, though. So spew on and on. It doesn't matter.
The fact that I'm even addressing you here makes me cringe somewhat with embarrassment, but so be it. I'll deal with that later. But you talk too much for me to take seriously. You talk too much for me to continue filtering out the good from the moronic. You talk so much, the only ones listening are the other blowhards. There was a day when you suckered me in, but I'm free now. I've seen the light. I've been saved. Salvation is here. My time is too valuable. I've important matters to tend to, like washing dishes, picking up dog poop, sweeping the garage floor, and shining my shoes.
Now, if you'll excuse me, piss off.
With absolute sincerity,
Me
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