letters. to my FACE.

I know this is hardly an original concept, but eh. Sometimes I have to quit trying to be all perfect and just write something, anything, and hit publish. Mmkay?

Mmkay.

*********

Dear husband,

Really? Is it really necessary to DVR every episode of Hoarders?

Regards,

Concerned wife

*********

Dear peanut butter,

I went so long without you that I thought I didn’t need you anymore. Then I go to make “my” famous peanut and squash soup, and suddenly you’re back in my life again. Back in my house. Back in my refrigerator. Back in my consciousness, urgently bidding me to have just one more spoonful. Just one! Or twelve.

Please never, ever leave me again.

Reverentially,

Your biggest fan

*********

Attention giant winged insect:

First of all, no one ever even invited you into my house, you miserable ugly buzzy interloper, so quit dive-bombing my head and GET OUT, just GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME AND DIE FOREVER UGH.

In scathing and mutual loathing,

The woman shrieking and crouching behind the couch

*********

Dear lower back,

Ouch.

Regretfully,

me

*********

Dear wine,

Let’s forget our troubles.

Fondly,

xoxoxoXoourp

*********

Dear age 29,

This is our last week together. I’m mostly okay with that. You?

– lyn marie

*********

To Whom It May Concern:

Contrary to your opinion, not every kiss begins with Kay. In fact, brand new and utterly damning scientific research rigorously conducted inside my head just now indicates that simply standing within 27 feet of a television screen upon which a Kay Jewelers commercial is airing not only increases the rate of homicidal urges among viewers by 39%, but increases the transmission of infectious disease among domestic livestock by a ratio of 1:39758.

Also, I would like to find the person who wrote the commercial with the patronizing skinny-jeans-wearing emo kid who critiques adults’ automobile purchases and punch that person in the face.

Sincerely,

Reluctant media consumer

*********

Dear french fries,

Order the side salad, dammit, I said to myself. Order the fucking salad. What came out of my mouth? French fries. French fries, because 1) I never eat lunch out at work and 2) when was the last time I even had french fries? Besides, you were cooked in duck fat, and if that isn’t all fancy and foodie-trendy, I don’t know what is.

Duck fat.

I should have ordered the salad.

– Bloated

*********

Dear life:

Who are you? What do I even do with you now?

– Baffled

*********

Dear Atlanta, Georgia:

There is currently about a 3% chance we will pack up and move to you next year. So why do I keep looking up your neighborhoods and wondering, wondering?

– Desperately seeking relocation

*********

Dear Trader Joe’s cinnamon broom:

I bought you four weeks ago, and Jesus Mary Joseph, the whole house still reeks of warm, spicy seasonal cheer. I want to buy fifteen more of you and prop you up in each corner of every room, but I think the beau would have an olfactory overload.

Boo.

– Autumnophile

*********

Dear raccoons,

GET OFF MY DAMN CAR YOU FAT, MENACING BASTARDS.

Hatefully yours,

Crazy lady wielding broom

12 Responses to “letters. to my FACE.”

  1. Wait. This is important. Were the duck fat french fries delicious?

  2. If I may, I’d like to ad an addendum to your letter to “whom it may concern.” I’d like to request that all advertising staff for Budweiser and Miller companies throw themselves off of the nearest cliff because I’m really tired of your competing commercials that make men resemble every 6th grade boy I ever knew and feature way more hot, fake-mean lady bartenders who don’t wear sleeves to work than exists on this planet. You do realize that you are competing for a consumer group that have not evolved their taste in your product since junior hight? That makes you drag yourself out of bed for work everyday?

    Thanks Lyn!

    • YES. I will slip that into my anti-commercial manifesto, before I send it to the commercial people. Because GOD, do those suck. I always want to kick the bartender lady while wearing steel-toed boots, then open up all the “light” beers and pour them all over the customers while shrieking, “DO YOU CARE ABOUT TASTE NOW???? DO YOU FUCKING CARE ABOUT THIS TASTE?!?!!”

  3. BWAHAHAHAHAHA.

    ohmy.

  4. Dear Ralphs Grocery Store:

    Please don’t store all of the cinnamon brooms right next to the baked goods. I can’t smell the sweet buns and my nose burns.

    — Asthmatic

  5. What the hell are cinnamon brooms cause I want them all now! (Maybe they will get rid of the strange industrial, sterile-like smell in our apartment that our pumpkin pie candles can’t quite eradicate.)

    • They are like… have you ever seen those old-timey brooms made of wispy twigs or sweetgrass, all tied together near the middle and top? The cinnamon broom is like that, except that it smells like cinnamon. There are longish ones and short ones. You can apparently find them on Amazon, though they don’t seem to be eligible for free super-saver shipping.

      I always look for the free shipping.

  6. Virginia-Highland is where it’s at in ATL, I’m telling you… :)

  7. Dear lyn,
    You are hilarious.
    Please keep writing.
    Yours in blogging,

    Meghan

  8. Where have I been??????? I didn’t know you had this blog!

    Must. Back. Read.

    Yay, for fun reading material ahead! :)

  9. also, sorry I’m so behind on commenting. I read this a while ago and laughed so hard and thought I had witten something but I guess not! maybe we can send a joint letter to our lower backs? mines being a super pain in the ass lately too. also, I NEED that cinnamon broom

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