Letter Number Twenty-Eight.

Dear Apple Company,

People have been making fun of your new iPod Nano. They pick on it for being small and fat. Some even call it the iChode! What kind of parent would make such a child and watch it be harassed in the harsh world outside its clear plastic box cradle?

However, I know how you can rectify your errors and bring new spiffiness to the Nano, preventing it from ever being considered the loser of Apple products again.

Make it orange.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. And then send me one on the house for being a freaking genius (and so I don’t have to send two-hundred dollars on an mp3 player). You’re welcome!

Letter Number Twenty-Seven: Yes, They're Real. Also, Those Pins Actually Exist.

Dear Erika,








This is why you are my best friend.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Sorry for not mentioning your compassion, creativity, or stupendous rack.

Letter Number Twenty-Six: Look For Link!

Dear Big Punisher,

I find it hard to believe that I would be unable to measure your dick with six rulers. To me, you seem neither a "playa" nor someone who actually knows math.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Plus, we all know Notorious B.I.G. had a bigger penis.

Guest Letter Wednesdays! Number Two.

Dear Invasive Head Cold,

I just want you to know that I loathe you. Go the fuck away now.

Love,
Clark

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Dear Uterus,

I thank you for the fact that eventually you will allow me to have children, but right now you are very painful. Please stop.

Thanks greatly,
Devorah

Letter Number Twenty-Five.

Dear Jesus,

Whether you are a savior, a super-crunchy, peace-lovin', normal hippie man, or a character from a papyrus webcomic made over two-thousand years ago -- Happy Birthday, Captain.

And if you are a savior or whatnot, sorry the world you saved is freaking crazy.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Actually, your birthday is on January 6th or something, and this date was the result of Christians trying to overlap Pagan holidays and convert people, right? I recall learning that somewhere. Ah, well. Either way, dude, go eat some cake.
P.P.S. I'm gonna go play with the pirate playset AnnaMalia and Katie gave me for your birthday/my newfound "adulthood" if you wanna come over later for a playdate.

Letter Number Twenty-Four.

Dear Christmas Eve Day,

Way to sneak up on me, you crafty schmuck.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. At least we're one day closer to getting rid of Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas is You" for at least 300 days.

Letter Number Twenty-Three.

Dear Shenanigans,

I wish I were having more of you. Like the kind where you go out for locally-brewed beers with a couple of your closest friends and then find yourself in the morning passed out at a nudist colony full of disease-free (insert sex/es and gender/s you’re attracted to here) who are really fucking attracted to (insert your gender/s here) with (insert your eye color here) eyes, (insert your hair color and style here) hair, (insert your body type here) hotness, and especially (insert your fucking awesome skills and personality traits here). Then, you wake up from local booze passoutiness and dance all night, eat (insert your favorite food here), have multiple (insert your favorite sexual outcome here) in a bed with super-soft (insert you favorite color here) cotton/bamboo/soy/banana fiber sheets, and then paint inspiring wall graffiti that eventually brings peace to the entire world, ends world hunger, and inspires all people to become carbon neutral.

Yeah, that’s the good shit.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Oh, man, just from writing you I need to change pants. I mean what?

Letter Number Twenty-Two.

Dear Vegetarian Pooping Schedule,

You are regular to the point of being slightly spooky. Or, at least you would be if I pooped, because I am a vegetarian. However, I am also a woman, and therefore do no pooping whatsoever. Nor farting.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. But if I weren’t a woman, I would typically do vegpoo directly after breakfast. Except for the week where it somehow moved to before breakfast.
P.P.S. Haha, spooky. I just got it.

Guest Letter Wednesdays! Two A Week, Number One.

Dear Coffee Places,

You suck. I would like whipped cream on anything I get. Who said that I can only get whipped cream on stuff with chocolate in it? I can be fat if I want to be fat. What’s the matter with that? You don’t know me. The end. Goodbye.

Love,
Erika

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Dear Powers That Be,

Ever since I first saw The Sword In The Stone, I have been requesting the same super power for years -- the ability to shrink things down to the perfect size to fit in my suitcase, and then unshrink them again upon reaching my destination. As I re-pack my suitcase to go home from the UK, I realize that you have still not granted me this wish. What gives?

With love and ever-dwindling patience,
Kate

P.S. I know that sometimes I cheated and wished for the ability to fly too, but what kid hasn't? C'mon.

Letter Number Twenty-One.

Dear Adult Voicemail Introductory Message,

I know I’ve graduated college and need to get supposedly important phone calls from supposedly important people, but, honestly, “This is Kymba. I’m not here right now, but please leave a message after the beep so I can have the same boring-ass voicemail introduction as everyone else who has just graduated and is trying to pretend they're mature,” isn't doing it for me.

WHY CAN'T I JUST TALK ABOUT BOOBIES?!

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Twenty.

Dear Epidermis,

You’re just grumpy because you lack the cementing system necessary to hold your cells together closely so that particles and chemicals can’t get in miniscule cracks and cause intense irritation. It happens to the best of us. You just need to keep your chin up, switch to a fragrance-free shampoo, and get on with your life, girlfriend.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Nineteen.

Dear Hello Panda and Koala's March/Koala Yummies,

You are the same freakin' cookie. Merge companies, you bastards.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. But use Koala's March's recipe. Yours kind of tastes like a chocolate-filled back of a hippie's heel, Hello Panda. You know, like when one wears Birkenstocks all the time and then their heel gets all crusty and flaky and has "permadirt" on it that doesn't come out until the hippie experiences cracking and pain and finally buys a pumice stone? Yeah, purty gross. With chocolate.

Letter Number Eighteen: Translated For People Over Thirteen.

Dear Cellular World,

By removing all of the vowels and some of the consonants from your words, you are creating an illegible jumble that confuses educated human beings (and even uneducated human beings) and promotes an inability to both spell and use correct grammar. Please consider writing out your messages in a more universally understandable form. Seriously.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. It is even more of a travesty when this method of writing is transfered to the internet, for when you are on the computer the entire alphabet is easily accessible. Learn to type, DAGBURNIT.

Letter Number Eighteen.

Dear Cellular World,

Ds dsnt a txt msg make. Srsly.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Iz wrse on d ntrnt. Lrn 2 typ.

Letter Number Seventeen.

Dear Totally Hot Guy Who Totally Made Out With Me Last Night,

Thank you for totally existing.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. I'ma booty call you tonight. Bow chica wow wow! *winky face*
P.P.S. You think that group of drunken gnomes with neon pink jumpsuits and beard tattoos on their nipples were pissed off that we made out on top of them?

Letter Number Sixteen.

Dear 1001 ____s to ____ Before You Die Book Authors,

Anyone who believes your "suggesting credentials" is ultimately going to waste more time reading all of your suggestion books than they will being able to intentionally or unintentionally experience the 1,001 things/places/albums given in even one book. You are keeping them from hearing/seeing/farting everything you want them hear/see/fart.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. If I wasn’t interested in the first one thousand, why the hell would I care about the extra one?

Letter Number Fifteen.

Dear Past,

You can stop haunting me now, man. Especially you, picture of me in the "No Cavity Club" at the dentist during my horribly, horribly sexy no-bra-infrequent-shower-dirty-hair-with-a-headband-toothy-braceface-grin
-awkward-forest-green-corduroy-and-flannel-shirts-to-hide-the-no-bra-phase phase.

My ego has been well-crushed over the years, I assure you.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Catorce.

Dear Chipotle (the word, not the restaurant),

I wish people would stop pronouncing you “Chip-ol-TAY”. That is highly obnoxious. The “l” and the “t” aren’t even in that order, man! “Chip-ot-UHL” is slightly better, but still pretty ignorant.

Consider this my apology for the entire Caucasian race. We suck, we know it, we're apparently mildly illiterate, and we’re sorry. Now, taa-Kos de po-Lo?

Love,
La Kymba

Letter Number Thirteen.

Dear Haagen Daaz Banana Split Ice Cream,

I can either sit here, not go buy you, and be “lazy”, or get up to go buy you and be a “fatty”. WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?!

Love,
Kymba

P.S. KHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN!!!

Letter Number Twelve.

Dear Neighbor,

I know it just snowed and you have to leave for work (which you yelled to me when I gave you the "What the HECK, man?!" face from my window), but it is straight-up ridiculous to start a freaking snow blower at 5:15 a.m.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Buy a shovel.
P.P.S. I may just poop in your bed while you're at work today.

Letter Number Eleven.

Dear Subliminal Messages,

You are horrible things! Stop manipenisulating people!

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Yeah, that was bad-ass and you should tell all your friends how awesome I am.

Letter Number Ten.

Dear Stick Figure-Based Webcomics,

Sometimes I quasi-resent your obvious laziness, especially when there are cartoonists out there who actually try to draw. Yet other times I an in awe of how hilarious and inspired you manage to be despite minimal artistic effort (well, visually) .

Love,
Kymba

P.S. You don't count in the quasi-resentment part, xkcd. You blow my freaking mind.

Letter Number Nine.

Dear "Ah Snap!",

I would like to incorporate you into my daily vocabulary, but so far no such luck.

I'll keep trying, though. Promise. I need the cool points.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. You're right there, too, "copacetic".

Letter Number Eight: Edited For Squeamish Men.

Dear Creator In Some Form Who May Or May Not Be Thought To Exist Depending On An Individual's Personal Experiences and Beliefs,

I’m one of the only women I know who has “skinny days” at the beginning of her scoobydoobahdai'm notlisteningdidillydabadoowah. Are you sure I wasn’t supposed to be a man or a caribou or a gala apple or something? This just doesn’t seem right.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Eight.

Dear Creator In Some Form Who May Or May Not Be Thought To Exist Depending On An Individual's Personal Experiences and Beliefs,

I’m one of the only women I know who has “skinny days” at the beginning of her period. Are you sure I wasn’t supposed to be a man or a caribou or a gala apple or something? This just doesn’t seem right.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Seven Point Five.

Dear Illustrious and Beautiful Fans,

It occurred to me later that you might not know what a bialy is. Enclosed is a link to a photo of some bialies/bialys.

http://www.kossarsbialys.com/images/bialy%20box.jpg

Notice how depressed they look. That's because bialies/bialys know that when you toast them, they will never have the soft, warm, plump bottom the bagel has.

What can I say? Bagel baby got back.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Seven.

Dear Bialy,

You make a conveniently-sized dough base for a personal pizza, but this doesn't change the fact that you are basically the malnourished bastard cousin of the bagel.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Six.

Dear Hippie Deodorant,

You have the perfect chemical composition to magnificently neutralize my body odor at the beginning of the day and the perfect chemical composition to malevolently magnify it at the end of the day.

What up with that?

Love,
Kymba

P.S. I smell bad.
P.P.S. Patchouli.
P.P.P.S. Gesundheit.

Letter Number Five.

Dear Talented Craftsters of the World,

If it’s not too much trouble, perhaps you could stop being amazingly creative. That way, some of us mediocre craftsters could sell our junk as well.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. I mean, colorful stuffed felt breakfast pastries with seed bead sprinkles and stupidly-cute embroidery floss grins? You’re not even fighting fair, man!

Letter Number Four.

Dear Things I Want That Don't Exist Yet,

What, do I have to invent all of you? Geez.

I have a life, you know.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Three.

Dear Chicken-Flavored Ramen,

I see you every time I go to the grocery store. Your look constantly begs me to return to you. You know my irrational love of orange-colored things, and you taunt me with your appropriately-colored packaging. I can feel your ridges and remember the waves of noodles that resulted from each contact with boiling water in my $7.88 hot pot I got on sale at Target.

Vegetarianism tears us apart now. Meals cost dollars instead of cents. It's insanity.

It's obvious that I miss you, Ramen. And yet, I constantly wonder...how long must I have to remind myself that this lingering love is simply a chemical addiction perpetuated by monosodium glutamate stored in my body?

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Two: Edited For Pissed-Off Sibling I Have To Share A Room With!

Dearest Sister Monie,

Way to make me delete this letter, you doody.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Requests to see the original will be considered on a case-by-case basis.

Letter Number One.

Dear Timbaland,

"Baby if you strip, you can get a tip
'Cause I like you just the way you are
(I'm about to strip and I'm well equipped
Can you handle me the way I are?)"

THIS IS NOT OKAY.

Please report to my house in Chicago, Illinois, so that I may beat you senseless with a first grade grammar textbook.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. It sounds like you're saying "I'm are", which makes things worse.
P.P.S. Aside from grammar, I'm going to beat you for rhyming "are" with "are".