Unsent Letters

Dear Bella Italia,

I miss you so hard. When can I see you again?



Dear Red House,

With the high temperatures and humidity we had this week, I’m going to start calling you La Maison d’Enfer.

Dancing screaming itching squealing fevered feeling hot hot hot,


Listen, Asshole:

I am not your friend. I do not want to be your friend. I don’t know why things had to escalate the way they did before someone finally put you in your place. Remember when I did that before? I will do it again. That’s a promise, not a threat. I also have friends who would love to break your kneecaps. I have zero respect for you and all the bullshittery you do in the name of being a macho dude.

Fuck off,


Dear Ladybug,

Thank you for landing on my chest the other day, but I’m sorry I swatted you away. What were you trying to tell me? Do I have lucky boobs?



Dear “Natural” Supermarket,

Well, what do you know? You continue to annoy me, and yet I still choose to give you my business. Just yesterday I was talking about how great it is that you have a bulk spice section, but after visiting you today, I was left wondering: Why on earth don’t you have ground nutmeg in that section? Do you think all of your customers buy the whole nutmeg and grate it as necessary? If you do, dream on; my taste buds aren’t evolved enough to know the difference.

It’s not me; it’s you,


Dear Summer Reading,

I’m sorry if you think I’m neglecting you. It’s just that Isabel Allende wrote yet another heartbreakingly beautiful book that I am purposely reading extra slowly. Your time will come.



5 thoughts on “Unsent Letters

  1. you should feel good about neglecting your intended reading for allende. i’m neglecting in favor of horrible crime novels. woe!

  2. I love this post. And the thought of me grating my own nutmeg is HILARIOUS. It also sounds kind of diryt, now that I phrase it that way.

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