Dear Grey Shorts,
I’m really sorry about the stain. I swear it’s not poop. Honestly, I would know if I shit my pants. I mean, sure, I do fart a lot, it’s not like you don’t know that. (I guess I’m sorry about that too) But like, if I shit my pants it wouldn’t just be a thin streak of light brown on the outside of you. It would like the NASA launch pad at lift-off. Except, you know, with shit instead of rocket fire. You would know.
Maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to rule out it being some kind of poop. I was in Chicago, who knows what I sat in. That place is filthier than Kesha’s ringpop.
Realistically, maybe we should hope it’s poop.
Dear Living Room Blinds,
Look, I’m aware the one blind is still all twisted and weird. I know the tape isn’t cutting it, I can see that. It’s just, you’ve got lots of blinds, you know? Like two dozen maybe. And just the one, well, it’s not that much of an eyesore, especially when you’re fully opened or closed. You can barely tell then. And, come on, let’s be honest here: It was kind of your fault to begin with. You just need to be more responsive when I twist the thingy to open and close you. You can’t hesitate because I’m gonna rip that sucker. I don’t have some kind of slow twist in me, man, it’s on or off. No twist, or mad crazy twists. You should see me turn doorknobs if you think you have it rough.
Dear Shower Curtain,
Yeah, I really should have cleaned you a while ago. God, I can’t even imagine what it must be like, soaked in my grimy residue for months, years even. And the hard water too, I doubt that’s helping. It’s just, when I’m not in the shower I kind of forget about you. And when I am in the shower I’m a little distracted by the whole cleaning myself and masturbating outrageously thing. Hey, look at it this way – at least I’ve never pooped on you!
I’m sorry for never buying an ice cream scoop and bending you all to hell. It was rude of me to assume you would work just as well as a big metal scoop when you are clearly a flimsy, impractical tool for doling out rock hard ice cream. I’m learning, okay? The kitchen is kind of foreign territory and some of those tools seem pretty interchangeable. At least I’m using you – just think of the poor whisk, sitting in the back of that drawer, wondering if I’m dead. What’s better: Bent or forgotten?
That would be a good lyric in a song. Don’t let me forget, spoons.
Dear Xbox 360,
I feel like I should apologize for never plugging you into the internet over the past six years. I mean, you must feel pretty obsolete, especially if you heard about that Xbox One machine that has to access the internet once every 24 hours or it kills a child. I’m honestly a little concerned that you might slit my throat with the disc tray if I do plug you in. Maybe if you weren’t drunk all the time.
Dear Stack of Time Magazines,
I swear to God I’m going to read you. Just as soon as I finish all these old Wall Street Journals.
Dear Stack of Wall Street Journals,
I swear to God I’m going to read you. Just as soon as I finish all these library books.
Dear Stack of Library Books,
I swear to God I’m going to read you. Just as soon as I beat this dungeon in Puzzles & Dragons.
Dear Puzzles & Dragons,
I luv u, bby. Never change.