Dear Amberly,

It has been sometime since I have written you. This is mostly due to the Memphis incident. But I forgive you. Sort of. Amberly, are you just dying of boredom in the beach house? I bet you are. And this makes me extremely content.

You probably find me some kind of stuffy bore, intoxicating you with my literary nonsense and incredibly nauseauting letters left and right. I know it, I may be thousands of miles away but I sense you hate me too.

And that’s how I’m going to keep it, Amberly. Go ahead, go frolic around with Alec, I don’t care. You never gave any inclination that you were the least bit interested in me anyway. But as much as I detest you Amberly, I like you all the more.

But for your own good, Alec is a twit. You’re better off breaking into your father’s antiquated wine collection and drinking yourself into a coma. I think I rather like the visuals that fantasy gives. How grand!

Forgive me, I’m sleep deprived and an living on a diet of grease.

Sincerely,

Kingsley