WASHINGTON, D.C. — What the fuck. What the hell, dude. Twenty-four hours ago, you and I were just shooting the shit in the group chat. I thought we were being honest with each other. Vulnerable. Like when I told you I was having trouble with maintaining intimacy. And you put me on blast in front of the whole fucking nation.

I got clobbered in the fucking dome in sixth grade by a softball. I’m not “never touching a baseball,” I have brain trauma. Something you should know a little about, huh, buddy?

And since you told every official news source on the planet that I’m a jobless bitch, I think it’s time I return the favor. For starters, you told me on December 4th, 2024 at 2:14 in the morning that the last time you felt any sort of sweet release was when you strangled the last remaining dodo bird to death with your bare hands.

And remember your creative writing project about living in JFK’s shadow? You used the word “sip” a really frickin’ weird amount, dude. Really, man? You want to “sip from the jug of Kennedy success?” Get a grip.

And you know I’ve got more, dude. All I’m asking is you issue a retraction. Tell them that it’s not true. Tell them I pull so many bitches. I’m the god damn Babe Ruth (baseball?! See, bitch?!) of iambic pentameter. You’ve messed up the vibes of the group chat, man. You’re the snitch now. That’s what everyone’s saying in the group chat you’re not in.