Open letters... return!
Listen, you overeager motherfucker. It's December 17th. You are supposed to stay away for FIVE MORE DAYS. So seriously, back the hell off. Enough. 16 inches of snow in the last five days? Four and a half hours to drive home? 11 degree weather? What the hell? ENOUGH ALREADY, you overzealous bastard. Wait your fucking turn.
Your pen pal,
Dear fire alarm in my office that has been going off incessantly for the last two hours:
Seriously. Knock it the fuck off. I feel like there's a gigantic mosquito in my head. And if there are two things I despise, it's mosquitoes and gigantism.
Eat shit and die,
Dear co-worker who I accidentally crashed into and knocked over and sent flying into that table with the printers and stuff on it when I came stampeding out of my office because I am sometimes careless and tend to walk too fast and without looking and with heavy feet and you're kind of small and I didn't see you:
Um... sorry 'bout that.
Dear Rilo Kiley:
Um, I'm not sure how to say this. Because you know I love you, and I think "Take-offs and Landings" and "More Adventurous" are spectacular albums, and I think "Portions for Foxes" is seriously a song that I can listen to on an endless loop, especially the part where you yell "Come here!" All of that said... "Under the Blacklight"? Kind of blows.
Disappointed but not angry,
Dear chipmunk that has taken up living in the ceiling above my basement:
OK, apparently you didn't get my last letter. I know you're still in there, you fucker. I'm warning you. I killed three of your cousins, and I am coming for you next. Get out while you still can, or I swear on the swollen belly of Buddha you will suffer.
Waiting to see the whites of your eyes,
Please don't die. Please? I love you so. And then I'd be forced to get some overly fancy new Ipod that plays video and massages my hands and... shit, I don't know... speaks four languages and knows how to satisfy a camel. And frankly, I don't need any of that. You're fine. You're better than fine. But... you're kind of shitting the bed right now. You freeze up for hours. I've needed to wipe you clean and start over twice. And there's that creepy death rattle that comes out every now and then. I'd really rather not have to replace you. Plus, I kind of dig that you're old-school in that cool-like-Donkey-Kong kind of way. So, please don't die.
Hopelessly devoted to you,
Listening to: Rilo Kiley - Portions For Foxes