Dear Dumbshit Florida Bitch,
Thank you for nearly annihilating me as I crossed West Burnside onto 18th on my bike. I understand that your phone call was important. That is why I nearly lost my life for you. I apologize for flipping you off and calling you bad names, although you were too busy gabbing on the phone to even acknowledge me or my profane proclamations for road safety. I'm sorry that even when I caught up to your silver SUV at a stoplight, you were still on the phone. But I'm not sorry that I got your license plate number. Your car is registered in the state of Florida. Thanks to this magical, cat-filled box of delicious we call the internet, I know many other things about you. Fortunately for you, I'm going to keep that information to myself. I'm not even going to mail you a sack of my dog's shit or hide behind the palm trees in your front yard, shouting "BOO!" every time you step outside. I'm just going to ask you to go the fuck back to Florida. If I see you on the road again, I'm throwing oranges.
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