Dear St. Louis

I understand you are upset that I choose Greece over you and all of yours. But I thought we were even when everyone who visited you told me "it was the best time EVER, probably in the history of the universe, definitely in the history of this world, five notches above the best meal I've ever had at Burger King." I felt left out. Depressed. I tried looking at my tan to remind myself I had just recently been basking in the Grecian sun. But alas, I HATE missing out on fun even when I'm having loads of it myself. Someone once gave me an acronym for this disease but I also have the memory of a goldfish. I know I know. You feel about as sorry for me as well, okay, you hate me and want to cut me. But really St. Louis, did you have to send me your Tornadoes? I think this is taking things a little too far, personally. It's not like I showed up for dinner and shit beside the toilet instead of in it and then blamed it on your kid. I'll have you know that I found your little "Tornado warning: take immediate safety" threat titillating. After I was in the safety of my basement of course. I mean, it's really unfair to send tornadoes to places that don't have "tornado warning systems" or "sophisticated tornado tracking devices." I don't even have a TV. And it was nighttime no less, so I couldn't even see it coming even if I had tried. You are a sneaky little asshole St. Louis. And you got me. You got me good. Can we shake now?

e.l.s.