I’ve come home from another busy day at the office. I should correct myself - not home, it’s Residence Inn Suites, from the folks that brought us Marriot. It’s all right, but it’s too bad I don’t get to stay in the Presidential Room. I wish I was with you.
Right now, I’m really tired and I can barely write. I’m also complaining that I’m getting really fat because this stupid course makes me eat all fucking day long at restaurants. I’m going to strangle the next flunky that raves about Applebee’s or Outback Steakhouse. Did I tell you that Outback Steakhouse is microwavable gross.
Anyway, are you mad that I still haven’t written anything romantic? I wish my letters we so good that you could rub one out from just reading them.
Did I tell you that I hate the Army? Fuck.