I, Anonymous

Skanks for the Memories

By Anonymous

You fucking piece of shit man-whore. In the four years we've been roommates, not only have I had to suffer through countless nights of your Mike Patton tributes—dude, didn't anyone ever tell you that it's only cool for a girl to be a screamer?—I've also had to share my living space with some true fucking champions of skank. Remember that fortysomething panther with the flapjacks you picked up in the Kmart parking lot? There's nothing I like more than to wake up in the morning and find some grinning snaggletooth wandering around my kitchen, remnants of your duck butter glistening in her nasty fucking postmenopausal 'stache. Then there's that poly hippie chick whose nappy-ass boyfriend you let crash on our couch while you fucked her in the ass—oh yeah, hmmm... why did we all end up with crabs two days later? You fucking moron. And that was my fucking couch, too. But now you've really fucked up, and I'm leaving this cesspool of carnal travesty and I hope you drown in your own putrid fucking semen. Remember our trip to Seattle for Bumbershoot? Remember how I had to piss so bad and you wouldn't stop the fucking car because you were in a hurry to meet up with some internet ho, but you were so kind as to give me your empty Yoo-hoo bottle? Guess what? My doctor gave me the news—I have fucking herpes! And don't try and tell me it wasn't you, you Valtrex-popping motherfucker. Now I have something to remember you by for all eternity, you fucking douchebag. Oh, but wait, there's more. Remember when your sister came up here to visit you last weekend? Remember when you were out "sarging" with your fellow man-whores? Oh yes I did.

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