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".