I know, I know: nobody at the opposite end of this correspondence will ever have much cause to celebrate my scatterbrained complainery.

This letter will be secured to an office fridge with a fruity watermelon magnet, produce maybe a single chuckle, and that will be that.
And beside it, a stained missive about how Bill Gates and the Borg both Ate My Balls, and how Bert is Evil, and a printout of those high-LaRioUs dancing hamsters. CLICK HERE FOR MORE SICK AND TWISTED SITES!! OH GOD I'M AN IDIOT RUNNING AROUND WITH A SHOTGUN!! **WHOOPS** I TRIPPED AND **BONK** MY HEAD AND **BLAM** I'M DEAD.

GOD, YOU PEOPLE MAKE ME SICK.

I'm not suggesting I'm somehow entitled to a refund. Nor am I about to repackage all that stupid shit up and mail your idiotic balloon back at my own expense. I don't have stamps or envelopes laying around my house.

And I don't have tables, and I don't have chairs. Everything that smashed out my window got ripped off. I came home to a self-serve sidewalk sale in the middle of the street, and it all went.
This means if mom and dad couldn't bother to go shopping somewhere crowded this year, your presents might be on the lame side.
But guess what, I'm too jetlagged from my big long journey to be concerned with the direction of my life just at the moment.

I should have ditched eighty to ninety percent of all my worldly belongings a long time ago. Go ahead, take it on home. You're saving me the rental costs of a U-Haul and a trip to the underside of a freeway overpass.