Dear Steamy Becky:
I can't decide whether to love you or hate you. On the one hand, you keep me laughing what with your camel toe of a much younger woman and killing your dad with whipped cream and your Ricki Lake vagina. But on the other hand, the fact that you are so much funnier than me really pisses me off. Really. You could even say it steams me up, kid.
For a time (and by "for a time" I mean until I remembered to take my happy pill this morning) I fantasized about driving to your sunny home on the west coast, crawling through that window in the back of your house that doesn't lock quite right, sitting in your chair waiting for you to arrive home, and then breaking your hands. The thought was that doing so would teach you to be so damn entertaining with your 565 followers and comments coming out your leaky ass. AND it would keep you from being funnier than me for at least 4-6 weeks.
But, like I said, I re-calibrated my internal chemistry this morning and came to my senses. I don't really want to hurt you. You seem like a nice girl, under all the farts and penises and stainy dog crotches. No, instead I want to honor you. Steamy Becky, will you accept the Official Award of EILCC?
What's that? No, no. This isn't a trick. No, I am NOT trying to lure you into a trap by treating you kindly. NO! No, no, no, no. Nope. I promise the award isn't rigged to explode when you pick it up. Swearsies. Please, just take the damn award.
Yours until I learn how to make an IED,
Gwen
