Wednesday, February 17, 2010

P.S. I Hate You

Dear Jack Frost,

You think you're the shit, don't you? You think you can go around blowing everything you feel like blowing and making white stuff come out of nowhere and land it on an innocent girl such as myself? Well STOP IT. Because of you, I'm confined to the indoors; I hate the indoors. My only source of entertainment is a hula hoop. Don't get me wrong, it's that hula hoop that is reassuring me of my sanity, but despite the joyous wonders of swiveling your hips to keep a giant circle balanced around them, it gets old when you've been doing it for hours. And hours. And HOURS. I'm serious, J.F., no one wants you here anymore. My nose is cold, my cheeks are red, and my hips are sore.

Seriously, Mr. Frost, you've had your fun, and games, and shits, and giggles. I'm just sorry to say that your shits affect the entire city in which I live in. No one wants your shits. It's your fault that my nose has stuff coming out of it, stuff that should be kept inside my nose, stuff that no one else needs to see when they stop me on the street to talk to me, because I'm very conscious of this dilemma you have bestowed upon me, and therefore I blame you for my antisocial behavior as of recent. That's right, Jack (may I call you Jack?), it is entirely your fault that I don't talk to humans. Fuck you.

Aside from a runny nose, I always have frostbite. I'm onto you, Jack. I know why you never show your face, why you're not at the mall during winter time with all the other elves and Santa and random winter folk. Because you know. You know. No one wants to see the piece-of-shit-wannabe-elf who gives everyone hard fingers and numb toes. You know what we would do if you had the balls to show your face? We'd make sure you never had those balls again. Cause we'd TAKE them. And we'd SHOVE them. Up your ASS.

Speaking of colds...this climate, J-Man. I'm not digging this climate. Sure, there are some days you decide not to blow snow, but it is these days you also decide that instead, you should make it very, very windy. And freezing. Cause you're a little pervert. You got a thing for hard nipples, don't ya, Jack? Well listen up, you twisted perv. I'm sick of setting aside twenty minutes to get dressed because that's how long it takes me to put on one shirt, one sweater, one coat, one giant coat, two gloves, one hat, one pair of leggings, one pair of pants, and four pairs of socks. I'm pale, Jack. I look like I haven't seen the sun in three months, Oh wait...that's because I HAVEN'T seen the sun in three months. You sneaky little fucker. You're working for the lotion companies, aren't you? How much do they pay you, Jack? Really. How much? You greedy asshole. You make me sick. You're undercover and I know it and I'm suing your icy ass, as well as Lubriderm's.

I just have one question for you, J.F. - Why can't you be more like Santa? That's right, I went there. It's a sore spot, isn't it? Poor little Jackie, he'll never, EVER be like Santa one will ever, EVER love little Jackie, or sit on Jackie's lap, or make Jackie cookies, or give Jackie a glass of milk. Does anyone ever jump up and down when it snows saying, "Thank you, Jack Frost! THANK YOU!" Oh...they don't, do they? Why can't Jackie be more like Santa? Because Santa knows when to dipset, man. He does his business, and when his business is done, he moves on to the hanky panky with the Mrs. Oh don't have someone to hanky panky with, do you, ol' Jack? No. You don't. So why don't you stop LINGERING like an insecure FOOL and face REALITY. No one. Wants. Your SNOW, you Jack FUCK.

I hope you take this letter into serious consideration. Perhaps you will read it and decide not to make it snow so much. Perhaps you will read it and decide to pass the torch to the Easter Bunny. Perhaps you will read it and put a bullet in your head. Any of these choices are quite acceptable, and will be truly appreciated. Thank you for your time, but no, I am not thankful for your snow. It was fun at first, but now it's getting out of hand. Know when to stop, Mr. Frost. Know when to admit. Know when to accept. If the North has a pole, I'm sure it has a rehab, as well. I'm just trying to help you. Really.


P.S. Frosty the Snowman sends his regards, you murderer.

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