sturtle [dot] com

Okay, as per your suggestions, I’m starting my epistolary novel. Here’s chapter one:

Dear Fairy Godmother,

I’m sorry to bother you and all, but, like, some serious shit’s gone down in the past couple of months, and I’m gonna be busting some heads if things don’t change soon.

See, mom had this thing she was complaining about. We all thought it was just her herpes acting up, but really, it was cancer. I won’t bore you with all the details, but, long story short, she died, and at the funeral, dad hooked up with this bimbo he’d hired to be a mourner, and now she’s moved in. I’m not sure if they’re actually married or anything–I mean, there was never a wedding, so far as I know–but now the bitch is living here with her two squealing tweenage daughters, and I can’t talk on the phone or get any sleep because their door is always open and they’re listening to Disney radio at, like three bajillion decibels or something.

Still, everything was kinda fine until last night. It was a Friday, so, you know, I invited over Kevin to watch some movies and maybe a beheading or two. Nothing big. Anyway, we’d just finished watching that Princess Diaries thing when Kevin started feeling me up–which is fine, ’cause, I mean, we’ve gone all the way to third, so a little breast jiggle is no great shakes.

About that time, Poppy and Pansy (my stepsisters are fucking twins, if you can believe that) jumped out from under the bed, screaming and yelling and making faces. Well, I was all like crouching tiger and shit, ready to go ballistic on their skinny asses, but Kevin got all freaked and–get this–he jumped out the window! I don’t know if you remember my room, FG, but I’m on the third floor, and there ain’t nothing below me but moat and crocodiles. So needless to say, I’m out one very foxy, hung boyfriend–all on account of the goddamn Herbalife twins!

So you see, you gotta help me. Get me out of here. Take me to Tahiti or Siberia or wherever it is you live–it has to be better than this. Or if that’s too much trouble, just kill the twins. And make sure to shrivel stepmom’s ovaries: she and dad are so busy boinking in every freaking corner of the castle, it’ll be just my luck that she’ll drop triplets nine months from now.

Please help me, Fairy Godmother. You’re my only hope.

Love always,
Snatcherella

P.S. I know where you live, bitch.

I think it’s a little over the top myself, but the editors over at Pengiun, that’s how they like ’em these days….