It seems you pay a high price for everything you love. Shopping brought me such pleasure. Until Mr. Credit Card Company came knocking down my door and forced me to live on a budget. Joe brought me another kind of pleasure. But then he stopped calling. Such mishaps led me directly to ice cream. And I was happy until I started packing on the pounds. What should I do?
—Bummed out in New York
Dear Bummed out in New York,
I know you wrote to Sally and not to me, Crabby, but I must buttinsky here. Sally's a total enabler and she's just blowing sunshine up your ass with her answer because she always wanted to get with Joe the whole time you were together. I know, she's such a slut!
Sally knows you'll never be satisfied by Haagen Dazs Light ice cream. You'll just keep eating more and more until you are like a bloated whale beached on the toxic Manhattan shore. Then she's going to move in on Joe while you're down and before you know it, she'll be another one of those basketballs on chopsticks carrying his malnourished child in her Strivectin-lubed belly.
Lowfat ice cream is not the answer, just like shopping wasn't the answer, and that loser boyfriend wasn't the answer, you vapid mongoose.
Let's face it, you'll never be as cute, as skinny, or as well-accessorized as those Daily Candy drawings. So I say drink another pomegranate margarita or ten and start blogging. Pour your pent-up sexual frustration into your writing and before you know it, you'll be shriveled, pale and hunchbacked over a computer, and your audience of tens will know what douchebags Sally and Joe were. Then you'll really know what it means to hit rock bottom. Wait, did I say that out loud?
Eat me,
Crabby
Holy crap! Buck up, Crabby.