Dear Players

Dear Players,

I am writing in regards to your insecure and constant need for solipsistic, self-affirmation. I am also writing in regards to your inability to love or in anyway understand the conditions of loving another individual unless it is in the context of an orgy fiesta.

A player is defined under my terms and conditions of affection as: a narcissistic, insecure, emotionally sterile, egotistical son-of-a-whore who has a I-don't-give-a-flying-fuck-what-you-feel attitude to everyone except his own mother (but I might be wrong); a player could also be defined as a sly, conniving, lying, half-truth-telling, indeterminate fruit-fly that buzzes around everyone and eats anything that spells 'organ'.

Now, don't get me wrong, I do not have an epistemological or a discursive problem with Players. I mean they can hump their way to the limits of civilisation, just as long as they don't hump my way. I am really, really, really not interested. Actually I find Players quite naturally detestable.

Please be adviced that this is a note of caution. Should you wish to purposefully contravene this warning, I will make sure that what I do to you would be worst than what a thousand flies from the camels of Africa could do within your rectum. If you doubt yourself and think you smell even just a little bit like a Player, please avoid me too. I might get an allegic reaction and poke your eyes.

To those who, like me, are just looking for that one person, or perhaps, a bit of company in the name of friendship, then by all means send your hearts to me. As ephemeral as they might be in this online world, I still appreciate the attention. But if you wish to 'fish' in this (presumably) ample ocean of meat, then you will find me quite inedible and (I hope) poisonous too.

Your attention to this matter is greatly appreciated.

Yours Sincerely,