Dear Saucy Wench,
To begin, I must tell you I think you're kind of adorable. Your high pony is too cute and you always smell like strawberries. Sure there was a time I considered going into Gynecology, if you know what I mean, but that was ages ago--my college days--after that night Lauren LaSpina, the captain of the womens' Lacrosse team, and I drank wacky mushroom tea and ended up rolling in a big pile of leaves out in front of the Sig Pi house. One thing led to another, and another, and I eventually found myself holding hands at an art gallery, being forced to talk about my feelings. It was not cool. When I get a case of the "feelings" I like to head to the nearest watering hole, which happens to currently be the Olde Sedona, and seek out a wise apothecary such as yourself, so that I may medicate myself with lots of healthy, healthy alcohol. I feel like men understand this a little better than women, which is why I prefer sausage to taco.
Anyway, I tangent. I'm writing you, because I think you seem like a trustworthy individual, and though my gut instincts are almost always wrong, I'm going to go ahead and offer you the reins to my liver anyway.
Here's the deal: When I order a round of Patron, and I can't pronounce the vowels in Patron any more, so that it comes out all consonants, like: "Ptrn," you can go ahead and shut me down. Feel free to get me a water and call me a cab.
It may be too much to ask on top of all that, but if you could seperate me from the gentleman at my side as well, that would be fantastic. "Gentleman" is almost never a gentleman, if you know what I mean. Of course, none of this would be a problem if I could simply open up and talk about my feelings, maintain a taco frame of mind, but I have to say I find it so much easier to drink the emotions away for another day. Procrastination is the key to a happy existence.
Thanks in advance,