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Hello.

Problems:

"Dear David, I really fancy this male supervisor of mine at work but I am too crippingly shy to do anything about it. I'm just a lowly blonde, biscuit-eating Tom Santry with nae a penny to my name. I laugh at all his tedious jokes, whip my hair back and forth and feverishly look at his lips at the time. Like they said in that msn relationship article, y'know? That you can tell a girl likes you if they play with their (pubic) hair whilst talking to you and look at your lips expectantly. But still nothing. What's a girl to do, sister?" - Beyoncé Knowles

Well, Bee-once. He's probably gay, or you have a face like you traded your pillow for a Waffle Iron.

Deal with it. You're most likely to spend the rest of your life secretly envying Courtney Cox (does anyone do it publicly?) and eating cat-food.


"Dear David, I wrote but you still ain't callin, I left my cell, my pager, and my home phone at the bottom. I sent two letters back in autumn, you must not-a got him, there probably was a problem at the post office or something. Sometimes I scribble addresses too sloppy when I jot him but anyways; fuck it, what's been up? Man how's your daughter? My girlfriend's pregnant too, I'm bout to be a father, If I have a daughter, guess what I'ma call her? I'ma name her Bonnie. I read about your Uncle Ronnie too I'm sorry, I had a friend kill himself over some bitch who didn't want him. I know you probably hear this everyday, but I'm your biggest fan. I even got the underground shit that you did with Skam. I got a room full of your posters and your pictures man, I like the shit you did with Ruckus too, that shit was phat. Anyways, I hope you get this man, hit me back, just to chat, truly yours, your biggest fan."

I never liked that song that much anyway.

"Dear David, I know you're making these all up and even if someone had actually taken the time to write to you, they'd have probably made it up anyway, but I'm at breaking point, I stuck with Lost for six seasons and when the finale lumbered it's backside over the finish line, like a Horse that lost a leg on the last bend, wound swarming with flies and bile pouring from the sides of it's clenched mouth, I felt relieved and satisfied. Though after thinking about it, I'm really pissed off; it was like watching the cast and crew wrap party. They're all hugging and swigging wine and tossing one another off. Hell, Hurley's got so much cum dripping from his mouth he makes Annabel Chong look like Mary Whitehouse. It wasn't that they hadn't written in a satisfying conclusion, they had. It was that with the whole church scene they showed their true colours. The show hadn't run for six seasons to really build a sense of myth or keep you entertained or tell a really exciting story. It was just this massive self-congratulatory vehicle for them all to preen in the mirror of life to. It was like masturbating for an age, dragging it on and on looking for that one amazing picture to bust your wad to. You keep almost climaxing, but you stop, there's gotta be something hotter, surely? This is the Internet! The sum of humanity. And you go on and on and on, until you give up and end up busting on the picture you started with, because you have to go to work. And as viewers, we were just watching this. One-Hundred and Twenty-One episodes of watching Matthew Fox wank himself to and slightly back from his zenith. I want to kill him, or make him endure the same fate from me. What should I do?"

Crikey, you're messed up. It was only a show. I didn't like Hurley much either. Go watch Deadwood instead.

Somebody, for the love of God, message me with something to write about, I'm going to develop Multiple Personality Disorder at this rate.

Would proof-read, but I make myself sick.