Dear Aunt Dottie,
The sweater you knit repulses me. I can’t even bear the sight of it. The style is hideous, the designs are grotesque, and the size is wretchedly too small. You know how I abhor polka dots; whenever I think about those small circles of misery you sewed on so haphazardly and with such carelessness, I want to retch. My imagination reels to think what sort of mutant beast could have produced the exceedingly course and malodorous fiber of which this vile matted garment is composed.  If you do know, I plead that you keep the information to yourself, lest the loathsome creature haunt my nightmares alongside grim images of your squinting countenance hunched over ferociously clacking knitting needles in process of perpetrating further crimes against nature. I feel bad for you, making such a sacrilegious blunder, while sitting in a heap of your own despair. It was such a blatant error to crudely experiment with such garish patterns and vomit-inducing color schemes; the designs savagely assault my vision, slowly causing an imminent blindness. I am revolted at your very existence; it makes me want to abandon a normal life, like you did, and pathetically retreat into a puddle of anguish and despondency. The whole sweater is a disgusting fiasco, a disturbing, catastrophic, and tasteless attempt at a gift.
With all due disrespect,
  Dante