- To the son of a bitch that stole my toy gun when I was 7 and I was walking through the market with my mom. I hope your criminal record continued to grow and now you’re rotting in some jail cell where Paco rides you every night.
- To the idiot that decided liver was food. I wish you a lifetime of nausea.
- To that doctor that went ahead and cast my leg even though no bones were broken. I trust you’ve recently been diagnosed with some sort of terminal disease which makes your rectum burn.
- To my ex-boss whose idea of feedback was to say “you’re not really a good writer.” I took your job and have published more than 30 articles, some of which have been referenced by the New York Times, NBC and EL PAIS. What are you up to these days?
- To that girl who said she wouldn’t be my girlfriend and is now married to that old, fat fart. So there you go.
- To my friend’s mother who wouldn’t let me in her house because I wasn’t a Catholic. Hey, at least I’m not raping little children like the leader of that Order you belong too.
- To people who play reggaeton. Why do you make us suffer?
That’s all I have to say about that.
Post inspired by Life in the boomer lane