An Open Letter To Eve, Mother of the Human Race:
Yo, lady! Yeah, you over there in the fig leaf. You know, we wear 'em a little lower on the hips, now. None of that tapered sh*t, either. Just sayin'.
I have a serious bone to pick with you. I am currently typing this with what feels like a Mack truck through my skull. Not a MAC truck, because then I would at least have makeup on, which I don't, because this migraine is making me feel like f*cking crap and lip gloss ain't gonna fix the problem.
Not gettin' it yet, huh? Almost forgot, we've evolved bigger brains since your heyday. Let me spell it out for you then... ORIGINAL SIN. You got to shake your tits at that asshat Adam and make him take a big ol' bite of an apple a day, keeps the Garden away, and *I* get to have migraines every month? Sister, you are a piece of work. You couldn't have held out for a cheesecake tree? We could at least have chilled out with a big piece and watched "Desperate Handmaidens" or something.
I'm wasting my time, here. I at least have something you don't have: a big bottle of Aleve and a Tupperware full of Oreo cheesecake truffles. (Whoops, I ate those already. B*tch. It's not like they grow on trees, thanks to you.) Oh, and a bellybutton. It'll look great in my bikini...soon as the bloating goes down.
Your Great-great-great-great-great-great-great (how many "greats" are in 6,800 years, anyway?) granddaughter.
P.S. To Adam: I hope it was worth it, you perv. You realize it's all your fault guys have to put up with our crap.