Angry half-letters that I will never send:
Is there a problem? In the grand scheme of things, you work for me; and yet 'work' is something you rarely do. You claim you can't process complex carbohydrates? Well I say horseshit.
Dear Dog Who Keeps Pissing on Our Lawn,
While I enjoy things that are white--furniture, albums, pride, my boyfriend--you are a mangy, off-white disaster and I hate you. The world--nay, the neighborhood we live in is filled with green, sweeping lawns and well-tended gardens; go regularly piss in their yards. They won't even notice.
Dear Upcoming Job Interview,
If you even think about asking me where I'm going to be in five years, I will probably say YOUR MOM'S HOUSE. 20 years ago I wanted to be a princess; 15 years ago I wanted to be an opera singer; 10 years ago I wanted to be a manicurist; five years ago I wanted to be an interior designer; this year I want to be an author. My prediction of where I'll be in five years falls into one of two camps: shark tamer or drag king. Because anything is possible . And that's why this is the dumbest interview question ever. Don't even go there.
Dear People Who Wear Really-Really-Really White Pants,
What gives? Is this a cult? Do your women not have periods? Do you know Tom Cruise? You're simultaneously blinding me and begging me to throw a Costco-sized Ragu jar at you. Who cares if I miss? It'll splatter in your direction, and that's really all that counts.
Dear Coldplay Song That I Am Resentfully Listening To,
I GET IT: you're catchy and British. But all of your songs sound the same, and you're married to Gwyneth Paltrow; with my schedule, it's hard to commit to resenting you more. I'm going to try, though. I'm going to give it my all.