Dear Candy Crush Level 133, and your sidekick, Creepy Sexy-Time Voice Guy,
Stop. Just stop. That move was neither sweet nor divine. If I hear you say, "Tasty!" one more time without me beating this level I will....Oh, who am I kidding. I'll keep playing. I'll hate myself, but I'll keep playing.
I understand that I have to get all Daft Punk on this level, but it's not happening. Maybe I need Pharrell near me to help me get some. Will he help me get two sprinkle candies right next to each other when I have nothing but a few jellies left? Because if so, I'd better get my stalking boots on and stay up all night 'til the sun.
I really do hate you, but I can't stay away. You're the stereotypical "bad boy" I read about in all those angsty novels growing up. But guess what? You're not the only one with a pack of smokes rolled up in your sleeve, revving all through town like Cool Rider. I can smoke more than you! I can ride better than you! (Well, okay, that's kind of an exaggeration. I do not know how to drive a motorcycle, but I can ride bitch like nobody's business!) I bet I can pound a jukebox back to life better than your wannabe-Fonzie ass; my anger towards you will give me Hulk-like strength and I would probably beat the hell out of the jukebox but that's neither here nor there. Sure, Patsy Cline's Crazy LP would probably skip at the lyric, "Crazy, for feeling this way....for feeling this way....for feeling this way..." and the irony would not be lost on me. I DO NOT GET LOST ON IRONY! I get lost on post. I get lost in town. But Irony? I'm motherfuckin' Lewis and Clark when it comes to Irony.
So, please, stop sucking the life out of me. Stop making me hate myself over you. Stop trying to sexy-time whisper words of encouragement as I clear four sets of three matching candies.
Who has two thumbs and is showing you no love?