22 May 2012

dear ________,

dear blood sugar:
why are you high? i didn't raise you like this.

dear good dreams:
why do you show up RIGHT before the alarm goes off? WHAT the deal?

dear next year:
i know you got dis.

dear p***s:
i don't think i like you anymore. you used to watch me shave ... {forgive me for writing that. every time i read these "letter" posts, i think of it.}

dear dude who hit my mama's car with no insurance, and with sister/car owner who also had no insurance:
i hope the hell they take your damn licenses and you have to pay for your slack ass decision making. but prolly not, because we live in america where the government has made it so people can pretty much do whatever the hell they want and the rest of us can pay for it for them.

dear mr. fantasy:
play us a tune.

dear. mista. president:
i'm writin you because ... shit is still real ******** in my neighborhood. {always did love some tupac}

dear adobe lightroom:
i'm really excited that i was able to purchase you at a discount. maybe now i can use the money i saved to sign up for some classes on how to use you.

dear adobe tv:
that chick who does y'all's how-to's for lightroom is in need of some aesthetic love.

dear lil wayne's family that i saw in roxboro cookin on a grill, drankin a bottled brew, swattin flies, all without even GETTIN UP FROM THE CHAIR, on the front porch, bout to get hit by a car wit some younguns swingin on a tire swing:
i SO wanted to capture that shiz wit the nikon, but i was afraid you might think i was makin fun of y'all. not the case. shit was epic. pure awesomeness.

dear doritos:
your level of perfection and flawlessness can only be described by a word that ain't even been thought of yet. and you and ice cold diet mt. dew in a can? soul mates. clearly. oh - and don't ever let anybody tell you that you're played out. you are at your best in your original flava.

dear bird who keeps flyin into my window at work:
you are dumb as a hay rake.

dear brody:
it's nasty how you carry your ball around and then freak out when it's missing like it's a pacifier and then roll it around in your mouth, throwin it to the back of your throat and then somewhat gagging while you get it adjusted. it's just a ball. seriously there, shug.

dear nice red headed pharmacist at cvs:
i really appreciate that you are always patient and in a good mood. it's as if you get paid to do your job and you chose that career for yourself. also, as a result of your kindness and patience, i have successfully fought off the urge to hate you because of your "lilly" outfits and pearls. much love.

dear dude who carved a 7 ft ram and then put it on sale on craig's list for $3000.
wtf, dude? did your mama drop you on your head? 

dear person who {might} buy said ram:
you too, are dumb as a hay rake.

dear waiters and dudes sittin on barstools, and men gawkers alike:
just because you are typically surrounded by unbathed haggards wearin no bra and some sweatpants does not mean it's cool to straight cold stare down a shugpie while she tryin to eat. or go pee in peace. seriously. get cinemax. did you ever have a mother?

dear blog readers:
i'm gonna cut myself off for now. you're welcome.

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