Dear Mr Cold,
You will note that I am calling you Mr. That is because I am much better at directing anger at males. And I am angry.
It is Saturday night. So what you might say. Well it’s not just any Saturday night. It is the first Saturday night in weeks, no months, that I had real plans to go to real places with real people. I am meant to be here. With my lovely friends. One of which is going away for a while and it was the last chance we had to let our hair down (and not literally, I was going to wear my hair up, and it was going to be NICE). We were going to have FUN, do some drinking and dancing (two of my favourite things). There were going to be real people there and we were going to smile and laugh.
But no you bastard. Thanks to you and your lingering, not going away, evilness I am sat on the sofa. Alone. Wearing Pj’s, a fluffy dressing gown and watching X Factor. I am offically sad and will die alone.
I hate you cold / sinus infection / random tinitus / cracking headache. I could have gone out this evening, had a brilliant time, made a million men fall in love with me and my wonderful dance moves, and with a bit of hope one of them might have asked for my number.
Not that I’m bitter I just wanted to wear something pretty and dance to some Kylie and other great popness.