It's my birthday today, what do you think about that? Are you even still alive? I don't know where you live. For all I know you are lying somewhere dead in that fog. Do I care? Maybe. But do you care that I might care? Probably not. I don't think I am making sense.
Please don't be dead.
I like making you cranky too much. It would be no fun if you're dead.
What in Merlin's name are you going on about? I'm very much alive and currently trying not to let the Daily Prophet offices burn to the ground. In London. Not Hogsmeade. You're right: you make absolutely no sense.
The only logical conclusion is that you were drunk. Is that what you do while under the influence? Think about me, even after all these months? I guess I should be flattered.
Fortunately I'm not in charge - not yet, anyways. (And I wouldn't write about horrid rich people. Maybe French people who like being assholes but who still drunk-owl people they've ignored for months.)
Harass me at your own risk. We have a handful of reporters with the temperaments of angry trolls.
I don't know why you would think of me. You made it clear the last time we spoke that you were done dealing with me. Or whatever. It doesn't really matter, though: I'm not going to be harassed through letters.