Oh. Marissa! I feel as if I have been hurled into an abyss of cold and bitter womplessness. How am I to go on without your hirsute, inverted, dinner-plate-sized nipples; your upside-down-pyramid-shaped lump of a muffin body; and your screeching, inconsequential micro-fits! I cannot even feel my jamz anymore. Where shall I find relief! Woe is me!! I fear that I must descend to the cellar and drown my melancholy in a case of vintage corn whisky. If I do not return, please give Listler and Gutterballs my regards, and remember me fondly as you slather cream cheese on your Digiorno's.