I love love love your 8 1/2-month-old sense of humor. The sly look on your face after a dramatic fit of fake coughing is To Die For. You grin at all of us larger humans and sneak looks out of the corner of your eye as if to say, "I am charming beyond all reason. Bow to my cuteness now and I may punish you less in, oh, say 8 years, when my idea of humor may involve cats, fire, and a bound and gagged younger sibling." I heart you when you screw with us.
Dearest H & R Block,
No, I do not want your stupid life insurance policy. You'd probably find a way to kill me and cash it in yourselves. I quit you. I don't want to talk to you any more. No, I don't think we can work this out. Stop calling me, you asshole.
Dearest eBay.
Look. You and I have to stop meeting like this. I know that this
will be really really fun to knit and support women's shelters in Nepal. You don't have to remind me again that these
are totally cute and only cost $6.83 (that's only $6.83 for red Steve Madden mary janes in my size). None of that really matters. Yes, we are both very cool and we get along great and neither of us has anything to do during the day, but honestly. I don't have a job, and you are taking advantage of me at a very volnurable time. You know how much better shopping makes me feel in the heat of the moment, and who gets to feel guilty afterwards? Certainly not you. You get to stroll away, happy as a clam, on to your next conquest. Seriously. We need to call this off. Or at least go on a break until I'm in a better place, you know, emotionally. Do you understand?
Dearest Taste-of-Thai peanut sauce,
You were delicious last night. I brought the chicken, pasta, and sugar-snap peas, you brought the love. I will be having you again as soon as humanly possible.
Love,
Mo
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