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My Darling Clara,
I write to you today along the Twittermattox timeline where the infirmary tents continue to fill without cessation, the woods ringing with the barking despairs hollowed-eyed souls driven to madness by butthurt and sick burns.
My Darling Clara,
I write to you today along the Twittermattox timeline where the infirmary tents continue to fill without cessation, the woods ringing with the barking despairs hollowed-eyed souls driven to madness by butthurt and sick burns.
I have done what I can to stanch the outbreaks of gangrene and capslock but I fear there will be no respite, as Colonel Trump's militia and the Resisters have vowed victory, even down to the final lunatic, and I am running low on bandages and alcohol.
The situation has become desperately hilarious and I fear that I, like so many others, shall lose my own buttocks to the dark laughter. I implore you my dearest to please pray for my buttocks and send more alcohol.
Your Faithful and Devoted BAE,
David
Your Faithful and Devoted BAE,
David
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