Dear Flippy,

I get your voicemail every time I call your cell and you leave me on read when I send you a fun snapchat. Every Monday night during our friend group’s “Wine and Whine” get-togethers, you just spend the whole time sulking in the corner glaring at me. I try calling your hot spouse, Steve, to ask what the problem is, but every time he picks up I just hear voices yelling, “if it’s that slutty bitch Ashley…” before the phone abruptly cuts out. It’s like ever since I fucked your husband you see me as a completely different person. What gives? I’m dying for some help here.

Sincerely,

Ashley R. U. Madison

Dear Ashley,

I think a big problem you’re having is that you think a simple letter is going to help me forgive you. I’ve got some advice, you back-stabbing whore. Next time you get a friend’s husband to cheat on her with you, perhaps try not writing about “Steve’s mind-blowing oral” on your sexual health blog. Also, next time, because I know you never learn, don’t use real names and addresses. That should give you the discretion you need to keep my family from tearing apart. I also suggest any time you eat a salad with baby carrots, maybe don’t point at me and ask, “know what this reminds me of?” And if all else fails, I suggest you go burn in hell. Thanks for your submission!

Yours,

Flippy