Dear Kashi Go Lean Crunch,
Look. I like you. I really do. The first time I had you a couple years ago, I thought you tasted like granola-covered rocks. Somehow I have grown to love you and I nibble on you with my beloved skim milk (which softens the rocks if SOMEONE is a little patient -ahem-) and you fill my tummeh and make me happy and you have far fewer WW points than a peanut-butter-jam-and-banaenae samich. Here's the thing, though: You've got to take the fiberific, moon rock crunchiness down a notch because I just scraped the inside of my mouth and I think I'm actually bleeding. (It's just a flesh wound!) Also, the fiber poots? MY GOD.
Dear White Noise,
You totally weren't scary. I was very proud of myself for watching you alone. I used to leave people's houses when they showed horror movies because I disliked them that much. Last night, however, I never jumped or ran out of the room screaming or grabbed for Harvey the One-Eyed Former-Desk-Occupying-Now-Futon-Sitting Elephant. I watched you because Michael Keaton is Teh Awesum. I have doubts about renting White Noise 2, which has intrigued me ever since I saw a preview of it on some movie I own. Non-horror-movie-ness aside, I won't lie. I went to bed a wee bit jittery but I didn't have any nightmares about dead people trying to contact me or about Michael Keaton's oddly-blonde hair in the movie. The latter was certainly more frightful than the bangs and slams the movie relied on to (try and) scare the audience.
Okay, I might have jumped once.
Dear Racist Soon-To-Be-Ex Therapist,
I have completed my letter to you and await only a post-vacation, non-rent paycheck which will enable me to pay your bill in full and thus be done with you forevah. Also, I'm copying the state licensing branch on my letter so that you can't just rip up your copy and forget anyone ever called you out for your racism. After that, you can add sizist and homophobic to your business card because I'm pretty sure you're the vindictive sort who will quickly grow to hate my plus-size, gay, biracial self. Just don't pull a Hand that Rocks the Cradle or Fatal Attraction and try to kill me because I'm turning you in or boil my bunny because I'm leaving you.
Dear Bicycle On Which I Have Put a Deposit,
I'm coming for you soon. I promise.
Dear Kitchen Floor,
Yeah, could you, um, mop yourself?
Look. I like you. I really do. The first time I had you a couple years ago, I thought you tasted like granola-covered rocks. Somehow I have grown to love you and I nibble on you with my beloved skim milk (which softens the rocks if SOMEONE is a little patient -ahem-) and you fill my tummeh and make me happy and you have far fewer WW points than a peanut-butter-jam-and-banaenae samich. Here's the thing, though: You've got to take the fiberific, moon rock crunchiness down a notch because I just scraped the inside of my mouth and I think I'm actually bleeding. (It's just a flesh wound!) Also, the fiber poots? MY GOD.
Dear White Noise,
You totally weren't scary. I was very proud of myself for watching you alone. I used to leave people's houses when they showed horror movies because I disliked them that much. Last night, however, I never jumped or ran out of the room screaming or grabbed for Harvey the One-Eyed Former-Desk-Occupying-Now-Futon-Sitting Elephant. I watched you because Michael Keaton is Teh Awesum. I have doubts about renting White Noise 2, which has intrigued me ever since I saw a preview of it on some movie I own. Non-horror-movie-ness aside, I won't lie. I went to bed a wee bit jittery but I didn't have any nightmares about dead people trying to contact me or about Michael Keaton's oddly-blonde hair in the movie. The latter was certainly more frightful than the bangs and slams the movie relied on to (try and) scare the audience.
Okay, I might have jumped once.
Dear Racist Soon-To-Be-Ex Therapist,
I have completed my letter to you and await only a post-vacation, non-rent paycheck which will enable me to pay your bill in full and thus be done with you forevah. Also, I'm copying the state licensing branch on my letter so that you can't just rip up your copy and forget anyone ever called you out for your racism. After that, you can add sizist and homophobic to your business card because I'm pretty sure you're the vindictive sort who will quickly grow to hate my plus-size, gay, biracial self. Just don't pull a Hand that Rocks the Cradle or Fatal Attraction and try to kill me because I'm turning you in or boil my bunny because I'm leaving you.
Dear Bicycle On Which I Have Put a Deposit,
I'm coming for you soon. I promise.
Dear Kitchen Floor,
Yeah, could you, um, mop yourself?
1 comment:
Okay, I love organics and naturals, but every Kashi cereal I've tried tastes like tree bark.
And yes, "White Noise" was not scary. And rather dreadful.
And what is the name of this hideous, hateful therapist?
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