S'late

Dear Dobson,

I've had no online requests of marriage today, this disappoints me greatly.  However, I've decided to accept the next one that comes my way.  Times is hard.  On the bright side, there are 91 people out there who would 'like to meet me' - go me.

The pissed-off part of the description of your 'persona' provoked an image of you dressed as Michael Douglas, à la 'Falling Down', brandishing a NERF Gun and causing all the middle-class parents in your locale to actually defecate in their Boden underwear.  Small pleasures.

I was saddened to hear you'll be keeping your debut clean, though I am sure there will be time for cunt and cock away from the smell of the greasepaint and the roar of the crowd.

I have overdosed on Chet Baker this evening.  Never a good thing; it's like Pedigree Chum for the Black Dog.

I will leave you with some highlights from my bedside table:

-  iPod playing Chet
-  Two tampons
-  A Mr Tom Peanut Bar wrapper
-  Sore throat lozenges
-  Nail varnish x 3 / remover
-  Thrush cream

Try not to envy my life.

Over and out.

Frankie