A Letter to Latin

Dear Latin,

You think you’re really fucking funny, don’t you? It’s hilarious to have fourteen different words for the verb “go” isn’t it? I bet you think you’re smart too. Because apparently having five different declensions, three genders, seven noun cases, four verb conjugations, six tenses, six persons, three moods, two voices and two aspects makes a language really scholarly. I’m sure you think you’re hot shit because Ceasar spoke your language. Well, guess what? Ceasar was brutally murdered by his best friend. Latin, I fantasize about hitting you over the head with a baseball bat and watch the blood ooze out of your cracked skull. I think about pulling your fingernails out one by one, watching you scream out in pain over and over and over again and I laugh. If Doc Brown pulled up in his Delorean and told me to hop in I would set that puppy to 300 B.C. and murder your pregnant mother so you would never see the light of day. You see what you’ve reduced me to, Latin? A borderline psychopath with homicidal tendencies. You think you’re the mother of all languages? You make me sick. You make me want to move to Germany so I could speak a language that has nothing to do with you, and I’m Jewish, so that’s a pretty high order of hatred- making a Jew want to move to Germany. The only pleasure I get from your existence is that you’re dead. Yeah. You’re dead. You can think you’re smart and funny and cool but the truth is- nobody speaks you anymore except for Catholics, and guess what? Nobody really likes Catholics. So, Latin, I guess my point is- you’re not funny, rot in hell.

Love,
Kate Shapiro