I come back home; I sit next to the fireplace, I fantasise about you. I always doubt whether I should write fantasise with an 's' or a 'z'. I am all alone and you always give me raki.

You just listen to bad music all the fucking time; I know you have two pillows next to your bed and all your fucking bad music and you spread your shit all over the place. When I come to your place, you give me lots of things: a pair of white slippers, a piece of bread, half a lemon coupe. Every single time you kiss me goodbye, rubbing the lemon on my lips. I like the white slppers, I wear them and I eat the bread.

You never pick up your shit; you never pick up your shit when I give it to you. When I hand it to you during breakfast, lunch or all of the above. You never ever let me pick your shit up and you never put it in its place. I told you; shit should always be on the second shelves next to the towels. Next to the towels which are next to the towel detergent, which is next to the toilet paper. And don't argue with me please, don't argue with me, I told you, you never pick up your shit.

Did you receive my Christmas gift? I wrapped it up and sent it to you last night. I was careful. I did not cry or spit. I followed your instructions. I took off my pants, sat on the marble kitchen table and pissed all over the place. I then careful wiped the piss with my pants, added some orange peel and marzipan and posted it to you.