Deer Gerry, I rite too you two-nite in a state, of tarra, fierce intaxocation. Two-nite Gerry, you find me under the influent of alcohol. Is is fore oh clock in the morning and I am as full as a po. I have bean sick twice, once in the po and once beside the po. I am sorry to rite to you in such a bluttered state, but I need a friend. Oh Gerry! If you are my friend, help me make it through the nite. The craving for drink came on just after a lite lunch of ferrent fritters, the buttered heels from pan loaves and a foaming mug of Iron Brue, served at room temperature. I tried to fight the craving. I put on my hobnailed boots and went stamping the cunt'ry lanes like a German storm trooper. I rolled up my sleeves and got stuck into the midden. I knelt on my plump, girlish knees and preyed and preyed too saint Karen the patron saint of tempetation. But it was know good. The craving was getting stronger and stronger. Suddenly, I yelled "Dumplins, nickers and tadoples", stuck my skirt in my nickers, leapt on the rusty bike and headed pell-mell for Clougher. And the rest as they say, is historonics. And now Gerry I am home again, with a big cloud of guilt hanging over my head like a grate big pear of black drawers.
I just fell off my chair Gerry. I bent over to hit the cap lock key and the next thing I new, I was sitting on the floor on my firm, round, plump-derriere. I wonder if there is a wee poltergist in the house? Something tossed me, wheather it was drink or poltergist, spirits was behind it. 3$%**)^*!6. Did you see what the comsputer did Gerry? It printed a load of rubbish. I mite take the back of this yoke tomorrow and squirt in some bicycle oil. I am full of grate sadness Gerry and yet, I have everything. I have my Sun Bon Jovi, a lump of a cub in a million. I have my boyfriend Chuck Corona, a man of refinment, good looks and futtering hands. And yet Gerry, too-nite finds me in a melon-golly state of mind. Why is it that us kumans is never satsified? Why do we always want-more? It was that attitude that got us thrown out of the garden of Eden. Just the way I was thrown out of Murphy's pub to-nite, I asked for-more and auld humpy Barney Murphy threw me out on my ars--derriere.
Gerry, because of our long friendship, I feel it is incombant on me to be honest and truthful will you. I have wet myself Gerry. Yes, the woman you love and adore from afar, has wet herself-twice!. Can you imagine how low I feel to-nite as I sit here in a pear of sodden drawers? I was all fingers and thumbs Gerry and could knot undo the draw-string on my drawers, so I peed, standing up like a man at the side of the road. Oh the shame, oh the igmony, oh the disgrace. I feel-dirty and cheep like Kerry Katona or Paris Hilton.
I fell off my chair again Gerry!. This thyme I fell backwards, hitting my head on the coal shuttle!. I don't think it was a poltergist. I feel I may be under the influent of some strange magnetic force from the up-turned wheel barrow. I am looking into my vanitory mirror and it's knot a pretty site. My big red bleezer of a face is all blotched and scared. What wood Chuck Corona say if he scene me now? My oculars, red as a chimps arse is protruding from my drunken visage. Drink is wild sore on a young girls prefection. What have I become Gerry? Rosie Ryan, the statesque Greek godess, has turned into an ugly drunken auld biddy. Woe, woe and thrice times woe is me. Have I squandered my literally gift for red biddy? What of my work in arts and kulture? What of my thesis on Van Allen's Belt? Too rings Gerry, surrounding the earth, packed to the gunnels with intense particle radition. My theory was that Van Allen's belt is up there to show the little swallows the way to Clougher in the Summer time. My dreams is shattered. I am a broken woman. But let us knot be down-harted Gerry. Did you ever here this song? "They were tattered, they were torn, at the ars--derriere they were worn, the red flannnel drawers that....
I'm wild tired Gerry, I'm away too my bed. Good-Nite!
P.S. I wet myself again, while riting this letter!!!
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