Dear Rebecca Black,
It's Friday, fry day, fried eggs,
You murdered my friday.
Any other day would've been fine,
But you screwed up the best day of mine.
Dear beau garcon,
I hate the fact that I don't hate you! You have a gift for humiliating me. Hate it!
Dear footpath-makers, sidewalk designers,
Please make the tiles a little longer or just really short. It's hard to not step on the cracks while still appearing to walk like a normal person.
When I muttered, "Could things get any worse?" it was a rhetorical question, not a challenge.
Dear stress-induced weight gain,
You're not helping with the stress.
It's week 3, and I feel I am 10 weeks behind. Why do this to me? It's too cruel.
Dear weight loss commercials,
It's good to know that not only will I lose the rolls, but I will also get a tan and a sexy new hairstyle! And in just 3 months!
You owe me six dates with that cute guy, a snowy day, a shopping spree in New York City, thirteen MacBook Pros, and my lost camera and Marc Jacobs duty-free returned.
Dear man who shared his umbrella with me,
Thank you for your kindness! It was just like in the movies. Except that it wasn't love at first sight.
Help me rediscover you.