That scream you heard from midtown Little Rock last night was me, opening my mail.
My stalker is back, and he/she is hitting below the belt. Not only will I spend the rest of the Christmas season in my typical self-imposed psychotic state. Now…I won’t sleep because that damn Elf on the Shelf is gonna murder me.
I would throw it out, but I’ve seen Child’s Play. Those crazy things just come back…mad…because they smell like sour milk and rotten eggs. Either way, this ends badly for me.
I still don’t know who you are, Stalker, but when I figure this out, we’re gonna rumble. And I’m sending the freakish, homicidal pixie to live with you.