You suck. Despite what the self-help books have told you, you really suck. Yes, you. Since the title here has probably led you to believe that here will appear a trite little Oprah's Book Club-esque tale about a vacation I took, here goes:
Sincerely,
The other day, I was feeling sad and lonely, so I sat down in front of my favourite television program, hoping to forget my worries. As I watched the humourous antics of that darling Steve Urkel, I came to realize that depression is what you make of it. At least I still had my health, a beautiful family, and at the very least, I was still better than you. Yes, you. Because while I may feel blue only every now and then, you'll always suck.
There. I hope that this uplifting little vignette has raised your spirits. I know it's raised mine. Because true happiness lies in hating you for what you are: a worthless pile of dung, unfit for human interaction of any kind, except for the occasional beating about the head and shoulders. Even if you don't write for Broken Pencil, I'm sure that there are a lot of characteristics of yours that truly suck. Perhaps it's an irrational fear of coasters, or maybe a smell that just won't go away. It could be a need to watch Sailor Moon for hours, or even seconds. It could even involve loving the movie Titanic (yes, Titanic. It sucked.). I'm sure that you can think of many more on your own. Your sad, pathetic own.
I just thought you'd like to know what everyone around you already does.
Joseph Shlabotnik Hkd?