Dear Mrs. Mitchell,
It's that red food coloring. Auntie Gertrude keeps putting it into everything. Cupcakes, scrambled eggs, toothpaste, kale. It's like everything makes her bleed. I've been trying to tell her she needed a better color but when I say something she gives me a fifteen minute speech about the life-span of some stinky animal somewhere. Last time it was the ladybug. Well, boo hoo. I don't care about her stupid ladybugs.
It's because of her freakin' red that I can't even stop at a traffic light without getting ticked off about all the cars—especially those shitty volkswagens. Not to mention that stupid chinese guy on the bicycle who rides past my house every day. Yesterday he was belching. "Nice one," I said. He took it as a compliment. Can you believe that?! As if I'd be complimenting anyone on their burping abilities. What a dumb shit.
Then at Vikki's memorial the funeral director told me to stop spraying perfume into the open casket. But I got him back. I shoved him onto the cement steps outside when he was least suspecting it. His wife complained later. What a loser! Doesn't she know how to take a joke?
Bring a six-pack with you next time you come over.