HATE LETTER FOR YOU

Dear Dr. Sordidfingers,

Christ Jesus you are so childish. I wish I could break your tongue sometimes. You're like a British chick school teacher with your words accented with pain and fingers drenched with sordidness. Christ I hate you. You make me feel like a woman. Not the natural kind. The insubordinate kind. The kind that sits in a sweatshop and works all day, and has to make every seam perfect and dot every t and cross every i. I'm fifteen years old, and it's completely unnecessary for me to write like I'm St. Paul or Charles Dickens. Why do you expect so much of me? Why do I have to make my words gleam? Polish my sentences with gold? Spit clean my paragraphs and dip my stories in divinity? I'm tired of hating my writing because you always have to piss on it. It's totally mediocre AND OKAY until you decide to take a leak all over my papers/computer! You're RIDICULOUS. And you expect me to keep you around, always driving me like a slave or an ox on a plow? I half want to cut your fingers off and tell you that your stubby hands are SUB-PAR. YOU, MY GOOD SIR, ARE A PISS-MONKEY WHO WILL NEVER AMOUNT TO ANYTHING. How does that make you feel? EVERYTHING THAT YOU EVER WRITE IS GOING TO MELT INTO A POOL OF LAME AND INCORRECT. Christ, man, how can you feel good about stomping on a fifteen year old boy's heart all the time? How can you sleep with the blood of my most important muscle on your foot? How do you kiss your children at night? I bet you don't even have children. I bet you don't even have parents anymore because they commit suicide. I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU. GET THE HELL OUT OF MY LIFE. YOU ARE NOT A DOCTOR. YOU ARE A MALPRACTICING DICK HEAD WHO LIKES TO DRINK THE TEARS AND BLOOD OF LITTLE CHILDREN WHO ARE TRYING TO BLOSSOM IN THE WORLD, WHO YOU BITE THEIR LEGS OFF SO ALL THEY CAN DO IS TRY TO WOBBLE TOWARDS SOME SORT OF SELF-PRIDE. I hate you, Dr. Sordidfingers, and you're NEVER going to be my doctor EVER again. GOOD. DAY.

Sincerely,

You don't even deserve to see my name.

P.S. I want my t-shirts back. And my mixtape.