Dear Mother and Father,

I am running away from home. Why? Because you guys are pricks. Power Wheels are generally safe barring the occasional battery fire, and they save a person my size a great deal of time gallivanting about the yard. Timmy Kipple has a Power Wheel.

Speaking of whom, did you notice how many people were at Poochy's Buffet for his birthday party? About 100. That's because his parents purchased embossed invitations, which you prohibited me from doing for economic reasons. The Times New Roman typeface on my invitations was embarrassing and niggardly, and unbefitting of a young man with discriminating taste.

Also, I refuse to remain a second class citizen deprived of icing for his Pillsbury Toaster Strudels. It's not really that much sugar, and the plain strudel is too goddamn dry. Oh and you can forget about that six-month-old box of strawberry Pop-Tarts. It's like... who do I have to blow around here to get a moist strudel? Tell me and I'll blow them.

Last but not least, how many times must I visit the grave of grandma Nurples? I never met the bitch. She never knew I existed. Dragging me along is a big fat waste of time and only makes me resent graveyards and skeletons.

So anyway, this is the last you'll hear from me, idiots. I stuffed a bindle with the leftover strudel icings and I intend to eat them in one or two sittings. Don't put out an Amber alert.

-- Brandon

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