Dear Bobbie,

It is nearly 4 a.m. and I am drunk. Do you not realize how badly I need poutine at this very second? I do. So bad. And yet you do not answer my texts requesting that you bring it to me. For over 15 years we have been friends, and yet you refuse me this one request. I feel like you owe me this much. I mean... do you remember that time I took you to the mall to buy a DVD players (back when DVD players were still something new) and you had terrible gas? You would wait until someone else was standing close to us, and then you would fart and casually walk away. It smelled like something had crawled inside your body, Bobbie, and died.. and that the thing that had died had been dead for weeks... months even. And, naturally, because you'd fled the scene, that stranger, the one standing right next to me, would look up... directly at me and give me the dirtiest look. And you did that so many times that day.

Surely that warrants poutine. I don't like you anymore.