Seattle: haven for the uninsured motorist searching for a dropped cigarette on the car floor, prone to smashing my car into stationary car in front of me, leaving me to foot the bill.  To you: Get Bent.

Seattle: paradise for unsophisticated bashers of car windows stealing hundreds of burned cd’s with zero street value, laptop bag with no laptop but with two aging ipods, a passport, and a checkbook that will collectively fund none of your future crack purchases, and the simple good luck treasure of a crystal in a hemp bag given to me by a hippie friend long ago.  To you: Get Bent.

Seattle: home of dog owners assuming no responsibility over excrement deposited by said dogs on what would otherwise be a delightful network of neighborhood sidewalks.  To you: Get Bent.

Seattle: birthplace of unredeemable sports teams.  To you: Get Bent.

Seattle: spawning ground for indie shithead trends defiling the memory of all things inherently good and pure to be diluted for soulless yuppie consumption.  To you: Get Bent.

Seattle, our love affair, such as it was, is over.  I spent 8 years wondering when you’d fuck me the way you’ve fucked so many people.  In fine, predictable style, you’ve done a lovely number on me.  You deserve only the most exquisitely contrived methods of tortuous vengeance leveled upon you by a mind of one slighted by your treachery.  I would infect you with a scourge most horrific if I could.

Seattle: get bent, get fucked, get out of my dreams AND out of my car.  Eat a dick, straight up.

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