Monday, July 31, 2006


Dear Phil:

It's not you, it's me. And I hate you. You think you can just drop by, hang out for as long as you want, but you always do it without warning. And then you leave a mess behind for me to clean up.

And now you're really messing with our future plans? No way, mon not-so-much ami. I've already tried to kick you out of my life once, but you held on. I put up with that only because I knew there would be bigger guns coming.

This time, I'm putting my foot down. Phil, you fucker, you're gone. You're not going to get another chance. You don't deserve it.

See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya. 48 hours from now, your ass is grass.

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