Dear Orville Redenbacher,

I hate you. Your delicious popcorn is just so damn tantalizing that when I opened my pantry tonight, fuming about men, I couldn't help but grab a bag, pop it, and butter it -- and now I feel like I ate the whole box, not just one bag. Thus, I hate you. Thanks a lot.

And perhaps you'd better have a chat with New Boy in My Life, seeing as how it's really his fault you're making me suffer. When men upset me, I resort to eating, and tonight you were the perfect victim .. or rather, I was YOUR perfect victim.

So yeah, New Boy, maybe Orville can teach you how to pick up your damn phone, read your damn texts, or stick to your damn plans. I mean, I would totally understand if you got hit by a bus and are currently lying in the intensive care unit at the hospital .. yeah, I'd accept that excuse. Anything else is definitely non-negotiable.

I hope you get caught in a freak hurricane next week in Panama City.

Still hating you, Orville,
Is