Dear Hawthorne Hipster-Wanna-Be Douchebag:
What the ever-loving fuck did you think when you took a photo of my license plate?
Yes, I understand you’re pissy because I made you stop standing in the middle of the street. Yes, I understand you were ‘saving’ that parking spot, and your two hipster-wanna-be douchebag friends on the sidewalk were probably on the phone calling in your buddy with a car to swoop in. But there is no such thing as saviesies on parking spots in Hawthorne District on a Sunday afternoon.
And I see no fucking reason on God’s green earth that you need to know my license number, except to use it for nefarious purposes. The Dreamboat is a beat to hell piece of junk, she has many distinguishing features.
I am a single woman. I am, therefore, paranoid about my safety. You now have a photo of my license plate, and I don’t know what the fuck you are going to use it for. Post it on the Internet? Report my car as stolen? Break into the DMV and find my home address?
Go fuck yourself with something rusty. I hope your tetanus shots are out of date. And your hipster-wanna-be douchebag friend who made ‘quiet’ gestures at me when I yelled, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” can also go fuck himself with something rusty.
No love forever and ever (and I took a photo of you, too, douchebag),