Letters: Volume 5

Dear Bellybutton;

You are weird.

But I think it would be even weirder if you weren't there.

Have a good day!


Dear Me;

Why are you so lame? Do you even remember the last time you woke up before McDonald's stopped serving breakfast? I know you don't eat at McDonald's because your soul hasn't yet been completely sucked out by the crushing responsibility of buying your own toilet paper, but wouldn't it at least be nice to have the option?

Do you remember when you used to actually care about avoiding things like E. Coli and Salmonella poisoning? Doing the dishes may seem like a lot of work compared with the minute risk of contracting a gastrointestinal disease from eating macaroni off the unwashed plate you used to defrost pork two nights ago, but prevention is always a good strategy. You can't exactly afford more antibiotics right now anyway. Do you want to die? I didn't think so.

Also, please start wearing deodorant again. If you can't find it in one of your moving boxes, buy more. It costs $1.99 at WalMart. You can probably find that much change in your couch.

It might also help if you didn't spend your money on stuff like SuperBalls and plastic rings. Those things are way less important than personal hygiene and food, even though they are much more fun and sparkly.

Oh, I see - your immediate goal of obtaining a colorful bouncing object is more tangible than achieving lasting material comfort.

I get that.

But do you have any idea how many SuperBalls you could buy if you actually applied yourself in the world? Probably eleven, but you should still try.



Dear "brain";

I have no idea why you though that the word "want" should be spelled "one't," but you did.

Let's not do that anymore, okay? There are people in the world who actually read what I write and they might think that I am insane if you keep doing things like that...

Yes, that's right... normal people don't write letters to their own brains.


But normal brains don't sass their people. So suck it, brain.


Dear ______;

You are full of shit.

Actually, you are full of intestines.

But your intestines are full of shit.



I thought of this joke when I was nine. You can't even tell, can you? God, I'm brilliant.

Dear Tiny Flying Bugs;

You are not nearly important enough to be present in such large numbers. I don't know what God was thinking when He made you, but He was wrong. Unless His goal was to annoy me as much as possible. Then He'd pretty much be right on.

What do you even do aside from finding new and creative ways to get into my eyes?

You realize that you are flying around in a swarm for no particular reason, right? What I am saying is that it is not necessary to get together with all of your friends and fly around as fast as you can while turning randomly. That's right. You don't need to do that anymore.

Okay, I have just been informed by Google that there actually is a point to your activities and that what you are doing is called a "mating swarm" which is just entirely inappropriate.

Please do not "mating swarm" in my eyes anymore.


Dear Sticky;

Get off of me!!!! Get off get off get off!!!