I have no clean clothes.

A letter to myself about what a fucking idiot I am.

Dear Tony,
You're a fucking idiot. You're at work, writing your stupid goddamn blog. In dirty, old clothes that don't even fit you. Because you're a total 'tard.

All of your clothes are at the cleaners. You clearly did not think this one through. You should bring your work clothes to the cleaners before you totally fucking run out of anything to wear.

You make me sick. And not just because a sweet, meaty stench is arising from the poorly-tended clothes you managed to scrape together this morning from the bottom of your closet, but also because you are so dumb it makes me nauseous.

That pair of pants? When's the last time you wore those? Your eighth-grade graduation? Cuz they pinch you at your waist (lay off the PBR, fatty) and they are short at your ankles. By the way, your socks are navy blue, not black like you thought they were this morning. And I'm not the first person to notice. Everyone else in the office saw it. I'm embarrassed for you.

Why are your sleeves rolled up, Tony? Oh, is it because you're wearing a cheap shirt you got on sale at the Gap Outlet and its sleeves are too long, seemingly tailored for Stretch Armstrong? Not only was it at the Gap Outlet, it was on the clearance rack. Did you think the thing was gonna fit you like a dream? It was $4.99 and the cuffs go past your fingertips. And I can see your undershirt through it. And I can see your nipples through your undershirt. Fatty.

You need to take a fucking girl with you next time you shop.

Oh, I forgot, you're a bearded loser in San Francisco, a city full of bearded losers. And they all like your cool 'underground' music. (Oh you're soooooooo trendy!) But, guess what, all the other bearded losers dress better than you. So good luck finding a girl to go with you anywhere.

Sincerely,
Tony

P.S. Everyone in the office went out for drinks yesterday and you weren't invited.