Dear S.,

You know what? I don’t care that you haven’t called me in a week and a half. Don’t care, don’t care, don’t care. (That’s the official line at least.) I don’t care that you don’t talk to me for like two years and then all of a sudden are all about me until you get uncomfortable again and then you can’t even fucking talk to me. I’m over it. Obviously, you’re the one with issues, not me. (That’s the official line, as well.)

You know what I do care about? That your stupid friend still has my stupid fucking keys. I need them back, ok? I locked my dog and myself out yesterday when I was in my freaking pajamas, and it was not fun.

I’m thinking of just leaving threatening notes on your car or in your mailbox: Give me my fucking keys back, bitch. Or how about, Return my keys or lose your kneecaps.

And yes, I am pissed off at you. To be perfectly honest, I kind of hate you right now. And I’m trying to be the bigger person and be friends with you, but it’s kind of hard if you won’t even acknowledge my existence.

And yes, I have my period, which makes me a pissy, needy, roaring bitch and if you don’t give me my keys back, you will seriously fucking regret it.

Grow up, dude. And in case I haven’t said it enough, GIVE ME MY FUCKING KEYS BACK.

Sincerely,
That Girl Who Had Her Lips On Your Cock Two Weeks Ago