Mistaken Love Letter Of A Teenage Rascal by Bird


Deeeeeear Darla,

I loathe the thought of you.
Your mother should’ve sat on you at birth.
Your name gives me mental cramps.
Your name has become a punchline for bad luck.
Your name is a bad word in the mouth’s of children.
I’ve learned 4 languages over the years
to better express how much I hate you.
porque te odio
je vous deteste
ich hasse sie
I fawkin’ haight yew
…that was australian.
It counts.
I invented Haterade so my hate
never gets tired.
I wear flip flops so I can give you middle toes
with my middle fingers.
Your family treats you like jury duty.
Your friends treat you like an STD
and your parking ticket presence
has everyone greeting you with

You are human razor burn
You are a government conspiracy
You are a walking dingleberry
A hunk of dried shit from the underpants of society
and you fuckin’ stink.
You are the opposite of Disneyland
You are the impossible celaphane wrap
they package CD’s with.
You are an American tragedy.
Time Magazine has rated you in the top 10
things that has happened in American history
ranked number 7 just above
The Great Dust Bowl of 1935
and Canadian rock band Nickelback
Fruit rots, grass dies and babies cry
within a 5 mile radius of your laugh
There is a help hotline because of you
There is a relief fund to the victims
of your acquaintance.
Facebook programmers have created
a dislike button for your profile.
The only thing keeping you standing
is the air in your head
because your spine left you for a job more stable

I fuckin’ hate you so much
I blanket myself at night with your meloncholy
and wake up knowing your misery
makes my breakfast taste better.
I shower in your tears to feel young again.
Your failures are my morning coffee
and I love this job.

I hate you so damn much
I’ve fantasized extensively about your funeral.
They bury you face down
so if you ever decide to try and walk this earth again
you dig deeper towards hell
I imagine myself farting during your moment of silence
I make sure your casket
is followed with a proper hymn;
”Another one bites the dust”
They release crows when they lower you
You have your own layer in hell
where you are consumed by darkness
because even flames find you offensive
and each day is spent watching
how much better the world is
now that you’re gone

What are the odds that something this terrible can happen?
Where were the Mayan’s or the scientists to predict this?
The alarms, sirens, gongs, bells, whistles have fallen silent
in the coming of your reign of misfortune

And to think…
in some Twilight Zone playground
you were so beautiful
to me…

With love and soul,