Please quit pooping by my door. I'm tired of stepping on it first thing in the morning.
Love,
Me
Dear calendar-in-my-brain,
Please stop making smug little noises only I can hear as I sit here shivering in 55 degree weather, wondering how the hell I'm supposed to survive Pennsylvania in the late fall next year. Also, stop reminding me that it's secretly winter (because the Winter Solstice is Midwinter, so it has to be winter now for that to be the middle) as I'm walking to work on legs that don't want to work right because it's too cold.
Love,
Me
Dear stomach,
WTF? I mean, really. Since when have we not been able to handle even two days of Thanksgiving leftovers? I do not appreciate the late-night pains and the all-day nausea, and I'm not buying that it's a cold until other symptoms start showing up, so you and gall-bladder better tighten up before I scoop you both out with a spoon and build my own mechanical stomach out of old computer parts, a bit of fishtank tubing and a ziplock bag.
Love,
Me
Dear bank account,
You could stand to be a bit fatter.
Love,
Me
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