Please, Mika. Please.

Dear Motherfucker who called at 5:00 am this morning:

You made me lose my last two hours of sleep for the night. The phone rang, and I woke up with heart racing, convinced someone I loved was maimed or dead. I wasn't able to recover and am now operating on a two hour deficit. If you knew me, you would know how wrong that is.

You didn't leave a message this time, but if you had, I'm sure it would be similar to the last couple you've left, where you say something like, "Mika. Mika. MIKA. Come on, girl. You know I love you. You did me wrong, but thas alright, Mika. It's alRIGHT. We cool. Call me, Mika. Jus call me. Why don't you call me?"

Um, I'm not Mika. Thank god, thank god, thank god. But if I were Mika? I would tell you to please fuck off and never call me again.

And to Mika:

Mika, wherever you are, do NOT call him. Whatever your life is like, Mika, I have no doubt you're better off without him. Don't look back, that's my advice.

In other news, I had planned on wearing a really cute outfit with a skirt and tights, but then my PMS smacked me right across the face and handed me my baggy jeans. That PMS. She always knows what's good for me.