Dear Michael:
You sense of style is about as pretentious as you are, your skin is the color of liquid paper, your out of work clothes make you like a white Bill Cosby.
You look like Johnny Depp had sex with Charlie Sheen, you talk so formally I wouldn't be surprised if your bedroom talk was just discussing your tax reports.
I never knew mummification could stop half way, your choice of clothes makes you look like a mortician but given how you look you should be the one in the coffin.
I didn't know it was possible to have a BMI in the negatives, bro looks like his bones are Lincoln Logs, food must be a foreign concept to you, I wouldn't be surprised if your ribs chimed in the wind.
Hey American Pyscho! Patrick wants his monologues back when you are playing diet Dexter, but unlike them you never be able to see the, "Tasteful thickness of it."