Guest Letter Wednesdays! Number Twenty-One.Dear CVS gift card

Dear CVS Gift Card,

Everyone seems to think you're a lame gift.

Well, y'know what?

Then THEY can spend their hard-earned money to buy me lame but necessary things like toothbrushes, deodorant, and shampoo. The point is, nobody WANTS to buy those things, but YOU make that possible at no actual cost to me!

Thank you CVS gift card!

Love,
Kate

Letter Number One-Hundred Eighty-One.

Dear American Dad,

You are...just...plain...awful.

But...you're...animated.

So I will continue watching you.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Eighty.

Dear Cereal,

It occurred to me this morning while eating a bowl of Wild Harvest Mango Crisp that you will probably save my life in the long run.

Thanks, friend.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Seventy-Nine.

Dear Knitting,

Ever since I decided to "try" crocheting, I've been promising knitter after knitter that I haven't abandoned the cause, that they still have an ally in front of them who has only taken up the hook for temporary investigation. But this pure curiosity has grown, and sometimes - I think you know where this is going - I just don't know if there's going back.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. I know it takes a third more yarn, but you take three times longer to do! Some of us are getting old too fast for this.

Letter Number One-Hundred Seventy-Eight.

Dear Crease In A Moleskine,

Thank you for being perpetual commentary to my inadequacies as an artist. Each day that I fail to draw a picture that takes up both sides of a page, or that nagging voice inside prohibits me from doodling "on the back of another drawing", I hear your maniacal laughter. Every time my pen is afraid to approach that rocky territory that might result in a crooked line I'll want to rip out, I visualize you, to quote Kate, "pissing in my Cheerios". My artistic Cheerios. I am TRAPPED on the right half of any given page, and you REFUSE to show me any compassion or mercy! DAMN YOUR SOULLESS UNEVENNESS!!!

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Seventy-Seven.

Dear My Governor (Blago-Blago-Blagojevich),

I mean, no one thought you were going to suddenly start doing well, but I don't think we thought you'd start sucking more.

This might be premature, but really? Foo'.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Seventy-Six.

Dear Grandma,

This is the glorious day you were born.

It is also the glorious day 75 years ago when we repealed Prohibition via the 21st amendment.





I will be drunk-dialing you to sing "Happy Birthday" soon!

Love,
Kymba

Guest Letter Wednesdays! Number Twenty: Kate Helps My Eczema.

Dear Kym,

A mental collection of images for you, so you might hurt less.

Imagine yourself in a big, comfortable oatmeal bath that smells like mint and silly grasses and herbs. Maybe lemongrass and peppermint.

Your humidifier is on.

The room is...moderately warm. enough to be cozy, but not enough to be stuffy.

When you get out of the tub, there is huuuuuuge container of lotion that is a mixture between calamine, hydrocortisone, and cocoa butter. It's quite obviously a light shade of orangey peach, and a famous masseuse applies it to you so you don't have to move or put any efffort into it.

Thennnn...you get to wear a soft, comfy, sunset orange flannel onesie. You get served cocoa with marshmallows, and cool mint oreos.

Obviously a goofy movie is on TV.

Now, picture all of that and try to relax. Hopefully it'll ease a little of your pain. I love you!!!!!!

Love,
Kate

Letter Number One-Hundred Seventy-Five.

Dear Low-Fat Egg Nog,

You poor, sad little bastard.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Seventy-Four.

Dear Key Lime Pie,

...ahem.
Thank you for bein' a friend
Traveled down the road and back again
Your heart is true; you're a pal and a confidant
And if you threw a party
Invited everyone you knew
You would see the biggest gift would be from me and the card attached would say "Thank you for bein' a friiiiiiiiend"...

Okay, thanks!

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Seventy-Three.

Dear PostSecret Readers Who Suggested A Warning Be Put Up About The Fake Larvae Boob Picture,

Here it is:

WARNING: YOU'RE FRICKIN' READING POSTSECRET.

Ta-daaaaa!

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Seventy-Two.

Dear Patrick Swayze,

Like most men, it took you dressing like a woman for me to realize how much I was underestimating your talent.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Seventy-One.

Dear Randall Munroe,

My [unprovoked] dear friend has decided to attempt to make me your






.

Be on the look-out for a hyper-excited geekgirl...or eight-hundred.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Seventy.

Dear Push-Up Bras,

My tatties hurt. Does that mean it's working?

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Sixty-Nine.

Dear White Chocolate,

I seriously doubt you are the favorite chocolate of anyone over ten years old.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Sixty-Eight.

Dear Rich People Who Come To My Coffee House,

What gall you have seeking pity from your working class barista about the taxes you'll "endure" for making over 250,000 a year. You aren't going to "lose all your money to the government" now, nor should I feel bad for you if you somehow can't afford $5.00 espresso drinks with $3.00 pastries every morning (I'd factor in tip, but - let's face it - you don't fucking do that anyway) for the rest of your life while some people don't have enough to eat any kind of breakfast.

Am I supposed to be worried that:

1. this probably won't have that big of an effect on your stupidly-rich asses anyway?
2. if it miraculously did, you might realize what most of the country is going through every fucking day and stop being the greedy, selfish sacks of crap you are now?

I'm really fucking moved by your plight.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. This is unapologetically my angriest letter to date. You guys suck.

Letter Number One-Hundred Sixty-Seven.

Dear Attempts To Keep This Blog Apolitical,

PRESIDENT BARACK OBAMA!!!!!!!!!

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Sixty-Six.

Dear Americans,

If you don't vote tomorrow, I will drink Traditional Medicinals Smooth Move and come to your house.

Fill in the rest with your imagination.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Happy Election Day!

Letter Number One-Hundred Sixty-Five.

Dear Candy,

Blechhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

See you next year.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Sixty-Four.

Dear Junior Mints,

I can't remember the last time I had a fresh one of you.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Sixty-Three.

Dear Ah Beard,

I don't care if it takes the rest of my menstrual life...when I hit menopause, I am sooooo growing you.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Sixty-Two.

Dear RC Color Bug,

W to the TF.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. http://www.rcarttoys.com/

Letter Number One-Hundred Sixty-One.

Dear Old People In Oldsmobiles,

I know it's a common stereotype that old people drive slow, but you honestly have no excuse. Your speed increases even after you take your foot off the accelerator in an Oldsmobile. I tip-toed the gas pedal and get pulled over for doing 61 in a 40.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Though traffic school taught me the invaluable ability to make a right turn.

Letter Number One-Hundred Sixty.

Dear Spliffigami Inventors,

Maybe if you let me smoke one of your inventions, I'll understand what the hell it is.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Fifty-Nine.

Dear Omaha Safe-Haven System Abusers,

There's "missing the point"...and then there's you.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Fifty-Eight.

Dear Indeep,

Thanks for making me a copy of that recipe!

Era-Straddling 80s Disco/"Hip-Pop" Group

2 cups Hot Black Ladies in Funky-Fresh Dresses
1 cup Half-Catatonic Bearded White Guy

Makes about 1 catchy song

Yummy!

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Fifty-Seven.

Dear Kashi Good Friends Cereal,

I have a good friend.

She is Mexican.

In conclusion, in keeping with your ideology of one-whitey/one-brownie per box, I believe my Mexican Good Friend and I would make an acceptable forced-multicultural addition to your cereal-box-melting-pot/cereal-bowl.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Fifty-Six.

Dear Today's Big Fail,

I have spent the majority of my life trying to be a compassionate human being by active listening, befriending some of the more lonely-looking people, and not laughing at other people's pain (going so far to call out those who do!)...but dammit if this hasn't completely obliterated the latter:

http://www.todaysbigfail.com/view/20080704

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Fifty-Five.

Dear Mrs. Grass' Noodle Soup,

Generic brand ain't got nothin' on ya "flavuh nugget".

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Fifty-Four.

Dear Twitter,

Thanks for allowing me to see my friends' random, undeveloped, minute thoughts, rather than the detailed and interesting inner workings of their days and minds. That's obviously why I became friends with them in the first place, so I could read the series of endlessly interesting two-second texts about how they just ordered some fuckin' cheesesticks at Denny's and then received them and ate them.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. At 12:39 a.m. I wanted to punch you in the head.

Letter Number One-Hundred Fifty-Three.

Dear Inversion Exercise Equipment,

Nothing says "getting in shape" like hanging upside down on the broken lawnchairesque contraption that is the Teeter Hang Ups F5000.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Fifty-Two.

Dear "Iced Tips",

No. No. Your time was nine years ago. You are ruining men.

Or, rather, helping us identify the lame ones...like a style-wounded gazelle...

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Fifty-One.

Dear Hillary Clinton,

I deeply respect your diplomatic endorsement...of orange pantsuits.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Fifty.

Dear Vegan Hotdogs,

You are so close to being real hotdogs that I forgive you for having the texture decayed chickpeas.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Forty-Nine.

Dear M.I.A. (The Muscial Artist),

Don't you feel like "Paper Planes" is going to get some goofy, twiggy hipster accidentally shot?

Eh.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Forty-Eight.

Dear My Golden Tan,

I never want this summer to end, because it means you will leave and fade into memory. This has been so much more than a fling to me, even though you seem to think you can just walk off in the cloudy, cloudy days to come.

Remember the good times we had, my beautiful, golden tan? Remember when you [sun]kissed me down by the pool? Or those wonderful days in the mountains of Colorado? I even forgive you for the burn I felt from that passionate afternoon at the beach when I decided "protection" wasn't necessary. Just don't go.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Forty-Seven.

Dear Keds,

You are going to make frickin' bank with fully customizable shoes, my friend.

And here's why:













Yessssssssssssssssss.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Forty-Six.

Dear Individually-Wrapped Jelly Beans,

Damn you for both your waste and your inefficiency! You make eating jelly beans a friggin' chore.

And that's just not right.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Forty-Five.

Dear Bed, Bath, And Beyond,

There has to be a better way to organize your stores. One where I don't feel like I need to be on a buddy system or have entered a different dimension every time I turn a corner...a dimension from which I'll never escape and will have to survive on bags of stale bite-size Snickers and mouthwash.

At least the beds will be comfy.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Forty-Four.

Dear High Self-Esteem,

You just make me want to make out with things.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Forty-Three.

Dear Bluejays,

You are the douchebags of the sky.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Forty-Two.

Dear Random Website,

Thanks for letting me know I've slept with 12 less people than others my age living in Chicago. This will totally be the kick-start I need to stop wearing panties when I go out.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Forty-One.

Dear Utah,

A 3.2% maximum alcohol content on beer essentially renders it a wheat juice box.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. MORMONS!!!

Letter Number One-Hundred Forty.

Dear Hiking Boots,

Ooo I bought you
I don't know if I need you but
Ooo I'm 'bout to find out...

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Yes, I am a mega-tool.
P.P.S. See you in three weeks, everybody! Gotta go try out them boots...in Utah. If I encounter a computer along the way, I will definitely post a letter (or three!)!

Letter Number One-Hundred Thirty-Nine.

Dear Jay Chandrasekhar,

Just, come on - can we get married already?

Love,
Kymba

P.S. And have one of those post-moderny hyphenated names?! Oh, hell yes.

Letter Number One-Hundred Thirty-Eight.

Dear Housemates,

Thank you for re-installing my curtain door.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. I knew five nights of sleeping topless would getcha.

Letter Number One-Hundred Thirty-Seven.

Dear T9,

Yes, I was trying to write what a "ducking asphat" that guy was.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Thirty-Six.

Dear "Rick Rolling",

I realize I am severely late to the game, but you are an amazing concept.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. I was trying to watch Rick James at the time! Superb.

Letter Number One-Hundred Thirty-Five.

Dear Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu-
uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck,

You are the longest "fuck"-related word I can search for on google, and you still don't accurately express the "fuck" I have stewing in my mind right now.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Maybe one-hundred twenty-six Us would do it.

Letter Number One-Hundred Thirty-Four.

Dear Chocolate-Covered Bananas,

I don't know if it's the hot, humid weather or the inadvertent celibacy of the past many months, but I could definitely go for one of you right now.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Thirty-Three.

Dear Anyone With Either A Heart Or Two Minutes Currently Filled With Boredom,

Today is my birthday. Fancy that. Now, I don't need any presents or cards or any of that crud. But if you do want to give a little bit, go here: http://www.apple.com/feedback/ipodnano.html

Now, if you're an active reader, you should know what to do from here. However, if you need a hint: It's a freakin' color.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Thirty-One.

Dear Canon Powershot 1100IS,

It took me at least a week to decide you were the one. I spent days over store magazines and the internet, reading reviews, considering megapixels, wondering if I could get close to an SLR or should even try to...and finally you were mine. And you have more than repaid the benjamins it cost to bring you home with this capture:















I love you.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Thirty.

Dear 90s R&B,

We have to move on from one another, because, honestly, songs I had stuck in my head more than once during the month of June (I never heard them on the radio during that time, either):

Soul For Real: Every Little Thing I Do
Tyrese: Sweet Lady
LL Cool J: Round the Way Girl
Tyrese: How You Gonna Act Like That
Blackstreet: Don't Leave
Deborah Cox: Nobody's Supposed To Be Here

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Actually, that Tyrese stuff might be from 2001. Regardless.

Letter Number One-Hundred Twenty-Nine.

Dear Chocolate-Flavored Skittles.

You taste like Tootsie Rolls with a hint of failure in them.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Twenty-Eight.

Dear Churches With A Starbucks In Them,

Whether your members are pro- or anti-corporation, aren't they still a wee-bit weirded out?

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Twenty-Seven.

Dear Technology,

Thanks for the ability to reach out to an "infinite" number of people from an "infinite" number of locations. No thanks for creating the need to mass-delete and re-label files every few months, like random webcomics and pictures of particularly cute puppies I collected by drag-n-dropping them to my desktop from the interwubs (Curse you, StumbleUpon!).

Love,
Kymba

P.S. To make matters worse, this process always seems to happen when I have something important to get done or long projects to write...hrm.

Letter Number One-Hundred Twenty-Six.

Dear Chicago Tribune,

Thank you for alerting me to the fact that Barack Obama really, really likes turkey legs with gravy. Without hard-hitting journalism dedicated to quality, like yours, how could I possibly know which candidate would make the best companion to the Renaissance Faire?

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Twenty-Five.

Dear Giant Spider In Our Doorway,

My desire to halt your leggy creepiness and my overwhelming need to bitch-slap my siblings on occasion are the only things keeping me from becoming a pacifist.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Twenty-Four.

Dear Two Zits On My Bum,

You remind me to not feel sexy each time I sit down.

Thanks for the humility?

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Twenty-Three.

Dear Friends,

I find I am much more productive in life when you don't exist.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Wanna hang out after I make a million dollars?

Letter Number One-Hundred Twenty-Two.

Dear Born-->School-->College-->"Real Job"-->Marriage-->Children-->Retirement-->Death Formula For Life,

I've decided to skip the rest of you.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Yeah, you heard right.

Letter Number One-Hundred Twenty-One.

Dear Halogen Headlights,

I suppose you're safer for the person driving the car, but have your inventors calculated how many accidents other drivers have due to blinding by you?

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Or how many brawls have broken out from someone flashing them to turn off their brights, when it's really their regular halogen lights? Shit, son.

Letter Number One-Hundred Twenty.

Dear Man With Literally Fifty Bobblehead Chihuahuas On His Dashboard Who I Couldn't Get A Picture Of Because The Light Turned Green Too Soon,

You...them...

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Nineteen.

Dear Tastespotting.com,

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

Love,
Kymba

P.S. We hardly baked enough recipes from ye.

Letter Number One-Hundred Eighteen.

Dear Freeze-Dried Foods,

I have been fascinated with you ever since my first trip to the planetarium, where they had astronaut neapolitan ice cream. It didn't matter that you tasted like skin flakes off a dirty table. What mattered was I knew that, at some point, you had been real ice cream. That was good enough.

Now, as I plan a camping trip, I look at three-cheese omelettes and wonder if it will bring me the same satisfaction to know that those eggs where once a real omelette. I mean, you can basically tell the ice cream was made while still in uneaten ice cream form, but these omelettes could very well have been scrapings left on someone's plate at Denny's.

Actually, you know, that's fine.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Because maybe there will be a couple pieces of hasbrowns that accidentally fell in...mmm...

Letter Number One-Hundred Seventeen.

Dear Multi-Layer Chip Dips,

You give me hope for the future, because the thing currently feeling at the bottom of it all is always striven for most.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. You make a delicious breakfast.

Letter Number One-Hundred Sixteen.

Dear Jews,

I have tried two days this week to get falafel from the kosher grill, and it's been closed both days. Now, I realize Saturday is your sabbath (my bad), but what is this "Savhout"? Are you just making up holidays now to keep from stuffing my face with delicious, delicious falafel?!

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Fifteen.

Dear T-Shirt At Target That Says "Think Globally Act Locally",

You were made in Mexico...

...yup.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Fourteen.

Dear Tia Carrere,

Shaaaaaaaaa-wing.

Love,
Kymba

Guest Letter Wednesdays! Number Nineteen.

Dear Beards,

Hey, baby. Lately I've been thinking about you. I'm ready to take it to the next level, I wanna be pro-beard.

Love,
AnnaMalia

P.S. I'm still jealous that I can't have a big Quaker beard.
P.P.S. I don't want to be a bearded lady, they're just so much more bad ass than Quaker lady buns.

Letter Number One-Hundred Thirteen.

Dear Ruffles Potato Chips,

Each time I tear open a bag of you, I expect the first smell to be the wonderful scent of bar-be-que or fakey onions or cheese. But then I rip you open and am instantly suffocated by a rancid fart smell.

Work on that, will ya?

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Disgruntled employees Dutch Ovening my food...?

Letter Number One-Hundred Twelve.

Dear Planned Obsolescence,

Me Poor.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Honestly, I no have money to put up with your intentional product mediocrity, attempting to keep me active as a consumer.
P.P.S. So I will listen to "Thong Song" with only the left speaker of my headphones.

Letter Number One-Hundred Eleven.

Dear Backposting Feature On Blogspot,

Thanks in advance, dude!

Love,
Kymba

P.S. No one will notice two weeks of entries randomly appearing, right?

Letter Number One-Hundred Ten.

Dear Being Sick,

You greatly impair one's ability and willingness to update their blag in a timely, dependable manner, to the great disappointment of everyone. In the world.

Love,
Kymba

Guest Letter Wednesdays! Number Eighteen.

Dear Nickelodeon Writers:

The other day, I was taking care of a sick young child, who wanted to watch TV.

And so we watched Dora.

And on today's episode of Dora, Dora and Boots had to find a "magic stick" that only worked at the top of the "highest hill" in town, and when it worked, it made all the grass grow.

...sometimes I think you write this stuff just for the amusement of the babysitters.

Love,
Kate

Letter Number One-Hundred Nine.

Dear 101 Dalmatians,

You convinced me that it was not only awesome but completely feasible to care for a shit-ton of dogs in a two-room flat.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Except later I found out that dalmatians are little douchebags.
P.P.S. One-hundred one douchebags is a whole-lotta douchebags.

Letter Number One-Hundred Eight.

Dear Non-Sketchy Porn Stores,

It's not that I don't support you more than/as much as sketchy porn stores; it's just that they're open later and I don't have to expend as much effort trying not to look sketchy. This greatly appeals to my inner lazy, lazy pervert.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Seven.

Dear Latino Meat And Produce,

Seriously, I don't think you understand exactly what happens when I see the words "Latino" and "Meat" next to one another.










Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Six.

Dear Sufjan Stevens,

You not knowing me at all, yet being able to construct part of my life or how I feel about it flawlessly (in this case, Illinois - where you have never even lived and hardly visited) unnerves my identity as well as personally-understood reality.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. You are the "Stuff White People Like" of the music industry.

Guest Letter Wednesdays! Number Seventeen.

Dear Beachball Stealing Poopy Fartheads,

Who gave you the right to spoil my good fun at my graduation? How could you take about the simiple pleasure of those round colorful treasures? I mean seriously, that graduation stuff if some boring shit as it is. The four long hours of torture waiting for all 1500 names to get called. It's not like anyone was paying attention anyway! But no, you have to take sick pleasure in stealing away one of the only things we students had left. A little damn fun! Thank god for beachballs and thank god for finally graduating and getting away from you damn ball-taking, happiness-squashing turds.

Love,
Monie

P.S. Balls, lol.

Letter Number One-Hundred Five.

Dear Maps,

Perhaps you are impossible to fold because you don't want us to ever be able to quit and put away our dreams of adventure...

...you freaking sack of crap.

Dangit!

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Four.

Dear Getting Up Early,

You are the worst way to start a day, because people like me never get enough sleep the night before. We're too busy worrying we won't get enough sleep, which keeps our minds awake longer, and calculating, to the minute, the exact amount we could get if we fell into the REM state that second.

I hereby propose an end to all times before the time currently known as "9 a.m." and for this "9 a.m." to be renamed "9 m.f.f.r.r.t." ("mothuhfuckin' fer real realz time").

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Three.

Dear Hatchback Mercedes,

Defeating the purpose?

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Two.

Dear Twister (the board game, not the movie),

I always want to play you most on days I haven't showered.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Ninety-Nine.

Dear Yakety Sax,

Everything...and I mean EVERYTHING...is better with you.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Even a letter as simple and serious as this.
P.P.S. No? Play this in the background while you re-read this letter: http://youtube.com/watch?v=spz8_rpE0e0
P.P.S. Yeah, that's what I thought.

Letter Number Ninety-Eight.

Dear Mythbusters,

Is it okay that you are the ultimate source of scientific information and theory-testing this generation has?

Love,
Kymba

P.S. In the spirit of being glorified pyros...oh, I mean SCIENCE...please continue to blow more things up in the future.

Letter Number Ninety-Seven.

Dear Bladder,

I am sorry for all those times I sacrificed your silent screams in order to:

a. get home faster during a long roadtrip
b. not leave the warm spot of my bed (thereby inducing dreams of running wildly around in search of a toilet)
c. avoid peeing while my friends are on the phone, even friends who do it to me
d. spend more time on the internets

I just get caught up sometimes. Please don't fail on me by forty.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Ninety-Six.

Dear Students Currently Studying For Finals,

In the past year, this is the only thing of consequence I have been obligated to create...


(credit to random livejournal user "fixing" who posted this four bar wonder)

...suckuuuuuuuuhs!

Love,
Kymba

P.S. What? You'll get these bragging rights soon. I'm just perpetuating the nasty cycle of post-college gloating. I didn't invent it; I'm just not helping destroy it.
P.P.S. Negative critique-givers, shuddup. This was my first time using a mouse to make music. One note at a time. Who said Macs are only for lazy artists? Oh, everyone? Damn.

Letter Number Ninety-Five.

Dear People Who Wear Socks With Thong Sandals,

With the exception of people who own those Japanese specialty socks,

EYE CONTACT! HAND! NO! *slaps hand* NO!

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Ninety-Four.

Dear One-Ply Toilet Paper,

Make no mistake; I will eradicate you.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. You make my bum sad.

Letter Number Ninety-Three.

Dear Passport,

Thank you for enabling me to get as far away as possible from the government that graciously gave me you.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Ninety-Two.

Dear Shows That Retain The Same Opening Sequence Throughout Different Seasons,

You are inherently superior to shows that change their opening sequence.

I can't really explain it; you just are.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Ninety-One.

Dear Al Gore,

While we're on the strain of granola-y letters, it is appropo to write you as well:

Neither of us is, in essence, a hippie, but we could be if we were living on a commune together - wearing Birkenstocks, eating organic, vegetarian meals grown in the community gardens, making tofu and hammocks for mainstream society during the day, and by night smoking a couple doobs and fingerpainting one another's bodies with biodegradable body paint dyed with plant pigment...especially the paint part.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. I'll bring the grass if you bring your sweet, socially-awkward ass.

Letter Number Ninety.

Dear Portland,

This is insane, you existing as this extravagant paradise to which I must pilgrimage. Why this inexplicable pull to go to you and purchase copious amounts of hummus? Are you anywhere near as holy as I and other barefoot, stinky Environmental Studies majors have made you out in our minds?

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Eighty-Nine.

Dear "Check Engine" Light,

Six and a half months of driving like a complete and utter douchebag, and THIS is how you repay me?!

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Didn't see that one coming, man.

Guest Letter Wednesdays! Number Sixteen.

Dear Pledge of Allegiance,

Why is it that every time I put my hand to my heart and start saying you I get a naughty feeling inside me... as if it's something I shouldn't be doing in front of twenty four third-graders.

I am officially giving you up.

Love,
Erika

Letter Number Eighty-Eight.

Dear Spangler Candy Company,

For all the Native American/First Nationers/"politically-correct term" on a horse pointing a bow and arrow at a star Dum-Dum wrappers I have gotten over the years, I'm pretty sure you owe me a Rolls-Royce.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Or at least a bag of lollies...

Letter Number Eighty-Seven.

Dear Lionel Richie,

Finding out that you were responsible for "Dancing on the Ceiling" has just killed a part of my soul.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Eighty-Six.

Dear Cruise Control,

As a kid, I was sure you drove the car, and thought my dad only kept his hands on the wheel for the day your faulty technology gave in and we'd have to keep ourselves from flying off the road at a well-maintained seventy miles per hour.

Love,
Kymba

Guest Letter Wednesdays! Number Fifteen.

Dearest Kym,

I think I have a cheese-it problem, I just can't stop myself and then I inevitably ask "Who ate all my cheese-its?"

I want to crush them up and snort them, I want to rub them on my body...um, that got awkward. I love and miss you.

Love,
[name removed to protect the innocent cheeseitophile]

P.S. This is not to go on your blog.
P.P.S. Unless my name is redacted.

Letter Number Eighty-Five.

Dear Super NES,

I could really go for some you right now. Unfortunately, all we have is Sega Genesis. Running off and crying in a corner will be more fun, really.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Eighty-Four.

Dear Vagina-Shaped Cake Pans,

Apparently you don't exist.

How did I not realize this?

Love,
Kymba

P.S. I'm upset as a feminist, but I'm more upset about having to carve my own pudenda pastry.

Letter Number Eighty-Three.

Dear Money,

You are keeping me from reaching my dreams. Stop it.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Eighty-Two.

Dear Cranberries,

You are the most over-rated of the berry family.

I'm not saying you're bad. You're good in scones and muffins and juice and gooey crap for Thanksgiving turkeys. However, there are tons of delicious berries out there, and I just don't see what all this cranberry holler is about.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Eighty-One.

Dear E-Z Bake Oven,

I know your products are nowhere near gourmet, but there was always something awesome about adding water to powder, sticking it under a lightbulb, and getting cookies.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Eighty.

Dear Andy Samberg,

Mr. Pibb + Red Vines + [your] Dick in a [my] Box = Crazy Delicious.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Seventy-Nine.

Dear West Virginia,

You have taught me many valuable lessons in life, like:

1. When it's very foggy, put on your hazard lights for increased visibility.
2. Gold-topped buildings are the way to go.
3. Coal is apparently not only clean, but carbon neutral.

Thank you for assuring that I do not lead a life of blissful ignorance or delusion.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Seventy-Eight.

Dear Hollywood,

You've put out a lot of serious shite in the past decade, but you have an amazing chance to redeem yourself here. Please don't pull a you and fuck up the movie for Arrested Development. I know, I know, there's a lot of blind fandom out there and you don't have to try in order to get people into the theater, and I know you don't even like to try (as evidenced by Spider-Man 3), but if you let this once-in-a-lifetime chance to finally make something awesome go uncherished, you will regret it the rest of your life.

And by "you will regret this the rest of your life" I mean "I don't wanna waste five dollars when I'm first in line for this one".

Love,
Kymba

Guest Letter Wednesdays! Number Fourteen.

Dear Meg White,

I was incredibly disappointed when you cancelled your show at the Jackson Hole Pavilion due to "stress". I just want to let you know that while I was disappointed I still like your music, and I expect free tickets to your next show.

Forever Yours,
Edward Wilkinson, esq. (Dictated But Not Read)

Letter Number Seventy-Seven.

Dear Oral and Aural,

I curse the sadistic bastard (or sadistic bastard ancient society) who decided you two words should exist, with your quasi-identical pronunciations and your easily confusable definitions...seriously, who freaking does that?!

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Sometimes I feel like our ancestors are just trying to fuck with us.

Letter Number Seventy-Six.

Dear Estelle Getty,









I want to be you when I grow up.

Love,
Kymba

Spring Breeeeeeeeak! *topless time*

Dear Viewers,

Hiatus Monday March 24 - Friday March somethingth...28. Yup.

See you next week!

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Seventy-Five.

Dear First Day Of Spring,

I'm no expert on Mother Nature and her standards of behavior, but I'm pretty sure it's not supposed to snow 4-7 inches with blizzardy winds on you.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Mega-lame.

Letter Number Seventy-Four.

Dear Ceramic Rooster Collectors,

I understand that you are the people who feel that their kitchen, their dining room - nay, their life - is just not complete without approximately thirty ceramic rooster items - salt shakers, cookie jars, wall hangers, random-ass non-functional ceramic roosters...

Some might view this as a peculiar obsession, but I will be completely honest...you scare the crap outta me.

Love,
Kymba

Guest Letter Wednesdays! Number Thirteen: Short And Sweet. And She Wrote A Letter!

Dear Mariah Carey,

The fact that you use your "black name" as Mimi...makes you Mimi Carey. Now, I want you to stop for a moment...and consider that Mimi Carey is what Mimi on the Drew Carey show became after she married Drew's brother...which is about as white as it gets. Good job, playuh.

Love,
Kate

Letter Number Seventy-Three.

Dear Brown Candy-Pooping Toys,

You are the true cause of all the world's ills.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Yes, including global warming, potato famines (past and future), and the internet not having enough episodes of Arrested Development.

Letter Number Seventy-Two.

Dear Guinness Beer Jingly Can Nitrogen-Or-Something Wedge,

You do not work, and have thusly ruined St. Patrick's Day with your inability to carbonate. You oughta be ashamed of yourself.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Seventy-One.

Dear Momma,

I appreciate you birthing me, as well as raising me throughout childhood, teaching me to ride a bike, taking me to the zoo, helping me with my homework, working out our issues so we could become closer than ever, feeding me, teaching me to drive, paying for part of my college education, giving me a place to live whenever I need it, supplying me with an endless amount of hugs...and saying "Bitches ain't shit" last week.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Seventy.

Dear Woman Who Posted The Samoa Recipe On The Internet,

Thank you for being the rabbit vibrator of Girl Scout cookie absence. You will warm the nights of many lonely, cookieless women.

Love,
Kymba

Guest Letter Wednesdays! Number Twelve: Multiple Kategasms!

Dear RuPaul,

What right do you have to be sexier than any woman ever???

Oh...right. You earned it by being fucking hot as shit.

Please teach me your secrets and then bone me lovingly. Thanks!

Love,
Kate

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Harris Teeter,

Your commitment to providing me with delicious food for afforadble prices at all times pales in comparison to your commitment to offering me delicious cookies FOR FREE. And quarters for laundry. You keep me clean, and full of cookies.

Love,
Kate

Letter Number Sixty-Nine.

Dear Three-Hook Bra Back,

Way to be an unnecessary, unsightly addition for a bra in the C-cup range, as well as an extra obstacle when I'm very tired and trying to go to bed. Picture the annoyance of a two-hook bra back - especially when one hook comes off and the other doesn't but is now extra-strained and extra-difficult to remove - plus another bitchbastard hook.

Burn in hell, Three-Hook Bra Back.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Sixty-Eight.

Dear Girl Scouts,

Hellooooooooooooooooooooooooo?! I need some cookies over here!

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Oh, the doorbell doesn't work, so you'll have to knock. Crap.

Letter Number Sixty-Seven.

Dear RuPaul,

Thank you for being the realization of my inner cross-dressing queer man. You are one of the only biological males I don't subconsciously resent for making a totally hotter woman than me in every way.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Oh, and thank you for your "million dollar derrière".

Letter Number Sixty-Six.

Dear Roadtrips,

You are wonderful, liberating experiences for the soul. I should use those hours of driving and long stretches of open road to contemplate the workings of the universe, and to reflect on my own existence. However, somehow I always end up playing the license plate game instead.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Never have seen Alaska...

Guest Letter Wednesdays! Number Eleven.

Dear Teenagers,

Please remove yourself from the internet. You are only a nuisance.

Love,
Kymba

Dear Teenagers,

Yeah, what she said.

Love,
Kate

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Future Girlfriends,

I will always love Kym most, I will not spend every waking moment with you, and no matter how much I like you, you will never get your own drawer. You might get a third of a shelf, but that's only because I have the extra space. Oh, and if I say I'm reading and not to fucking bother me, then I am reading and you best not fucking bother me. kthanksbye!

Love,
Kate

P.S. That doesn't mean I won't be really nice to you and cuddle and take walks and probably knit things for you, and I promise I'll treat you right and be hella cute....but I do have my limits.

Letter Number Sixty-Five.

Dear Trader Joe's,

Classy beers, good cheese, and imitation Oreos with crushed candy cane in the creamy vanilla filling during the holiday season? Oh, yeah, that's the good stuff.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. If someone brings me mini peanut butter cups at work today, I will totally make them say "Oh, yeah, that's the good stuff." Just saying.

Letter Number Sixty-Four.

Dear Enrique Iglesias,

How can you say you’ll voluntarily quit show business by age fifty when your career is already dead?

Love,
Kymba

P.S. "In 15 years I'll probably look ridiculous singing 'Bailamos'." Um, fifteen years?

Letter Number Sixty-Three.

Dear TLC's What Not To Wear,

See you in five years! No, seriously, how can the world tell you it's okay to wear t-shirts and jeans for 20+ years and suddenly condemn you for not wearing skirts and flimsy dress pants that make you cold in winter and produce tons of static cling to cement to your fat legs?! I'm an adult, I can wear what I want! Pointy-ended shoes?! I'm not listening! I'M NOT LISTENIIIIIIING!

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Sixty-Two.

Dear VR Troopers,

Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers was definitely better than you, but at least you knew when to die. Sure wish Fox or whoever would stop Land-Before-Timing them.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Was in-costume Trini really played by a man? The mystery remains.

Guest Letter Wednesdays! Number Ten.

Dear Scientology,

I'd write about what shite you are, but I'd rather not be sued.

Love,
John Doe

P.S. L. Ron Hubbard, fondle my danglies.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Beadazzler,

You were a cute concept, but are truly GAUDY AS SHIT. What a damn shame.

Love,
Kate and Kym

Letter Number Sixty-One.

Dear Snow Days,

I have not had nearly enough of you in my time. And, now that I'm out of school, outlook is bleak that I will ever fill the deficit.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. I wanna go freaking sledding.

Letter Number Sixty.

Dear Jewel-Osco Brand Frozen Pizza,

It must be declared, that you break the mold for generic grocery store products. The generic cereals, soups, and boxed mac&cheeses are always "just as good" and "taste very similar", but you, oh king of generic grocery store food items, are so...ohh...OHHHHH..."better than most".

It is an illustrious title granting you many privileges. Take advantage.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. If you can figure out what happened up there, I'll be more than a little embarrassed.

Letter Number Fifty-Nine.

Dear Vegan Cupcakes,

Most definitely you appeal to my social conscience. Most definitely you appeal to my visual interest in all things pastry.

Most definitely, you typically taste like a dustpan.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Fifty-Eight.

Dear Dubai,

Way to pull a freaking Bono! I mean, attempting to gank the awards for tallest building and hotel, and the largest waterfront development, man-made islands, mall, indoor skiing facility, amusement park, AND airport? Can’t you create an innovative metropolis without ripping the record rug out from under everything? Sheesh, dude.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Though the first underwater hotel sounds pretty neat-o.

Guest Letter Wednesdays! Number Nine.

Dear Cameltoe Song By Fannypack,

It's not cool that you're still stuck in my head, and I know that we're secretly in love, but if you could PLEASE make it so I don't accidentally find myself singing you as I walk down the street I'd really appreciate it. I'm awkward enough as it is. kthanksbye!

Love,
Kate

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Facial-Haired Hotties,

Get out of my face...
...and in to my pants!

Love,
Erika

Letter Number Fifty-Seven.

Dear World,

Shnookums, I think you need to take some time and figure your shit out before we continue this long-term relationship.

Have you considered shock therapy?

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Fifty-Six.

Dear StumbleUpon,

You are the closest thing I have to installing a black hole in my life.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. I am so very tired.

Letter Number Fifty-Five.

Dear Valentine's Day,

Today we come together to celebrate love's...you were yesterday? Well, shit.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Fifty-Four.

Dear Silk (the almost entirely unknown R&B group, not the fabric),

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UIzb32F6ZLA&feature=related

I know you tried here, and I, as a listener, appreciate your effort. However, as a video, there are several reasons this couldn't possibly get you laid (this is not a comprehensive list, either):

1. There is only one woman in the video, and you all never come anywhere near her (except some ghostly outline of her on your rotating stage thing).
2. The verse singer spends the whole time just sitting in a chair, though in the second verse he's in a more "freaky" position...hell yeah, backwards chair action.
3. "Twenty-four carat gold" bad-ass player wannabe motion.
4. In the second chorus, one of your guys does an awkward humping thing.
5. I'm no fashionista, but vertical stripes and yellow pants...goo. I'll kinda let you off on that one, though, because it was the 90s.
6. Camera work at "Aye yi yi yi yi!" - Holy seizure, Batman.

Maybe you can try harder on your next music video...oh, sorry.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. I'd say take a lesson from Boyz II Men, but in "I'll Make Love to You" the girl and guy are only in the same place when he's installing a security system for her house.

Guest Letter Wednesdays! Number Eight: ONE FROM A STRANGER!

I found the following letter in my inbox! I have yet to think of a stellar response, but yippie!

Dear Kymba,

I found your button on my comfy chair at Ambrosia. A good mystery/surprise after reading way too much Kant for class. Is this button how you spread the word to randoms? Is this button's appearance proof that you are an actual-person, and not just an internet-person?

Curiouser and curiouser,
Adam

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Jetta,

You may have a temporarily broken stereo, you may have a steering wheel that's always a couple degrees too cold or hot depending on the weather, and if you were a person, you'd be old enough to have your own freakin driver's license. But damnit if I don't love you so much it makes my face hurt. Thanks for all our time together baby, and if I didn't drive you as much this year, just know that I thought about you all the time when I was walking the streets of London. Thanks for everything.

Love,
Kate

P.S. And I know that I've sang along to lots of shitty music in lots of weird vehicles, but with you it's really special.

Letter Number Fifty-Three.

Dear 7-11,

Your damn “hot, fresh sandwiches” sign keeps tricking me into thinking that you are not a 7-11, but a Krispie Kreme. And a Krispie Kreme with hot fucking doughnuts. How dare you make my fat ass think there are hot Krispie Kreme doughnuts in an area where there are none. How dare you.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Rarrrrrrrrrrrrr:







(2nd image from hownow.brownpau.com)

Letter Number Fifty-Two.

Dear Aaliyah,


(Images from aaliyah.blog.hr)

You wore long jeans in 90% of your music videos, and yet you were still one of the all-time sexiest female pop music artists to ever live.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. I wish pop music ladies now would take a freaking hint.

Letter Number Fifty-One.

Dear Cilantro,

I know you cry yourself to sleep at night because of all the player-haters out there. Let me tell you something though, baby: I used to be one of them. But now I've finally realized that you complete me.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. And my taco de aguacate.

Letter Number Fifty.

Dear Etsy,

I cannot calculate how much money, time, and sleep I have lost on your search bar. Whenever I am on your site the Unholy Demons of Ridiculously Soft Cuddly Colorful Crap possess me to type in unreasonable things like "bunnies" and the rest of my evening and bank account is stolen from me as I stare dumbstruck at unfathomably adorable felt, knitted, and amigurumi bun-buns. At one point last night, I realized a part of my rational soul had been taken as well.

Curse you.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Do they make a snuggly crap search bar demon exorcism?

Guest Letter Wednesdays! Number Seven.

Dear Italian News,

I've been highly impressed that you appear more concerned about the upcoming US elections than the fact that your own government fell. Thank you for caring so much about us, and allowing me to follow news from the States while being completely unaware that the government here dissolved.

~Stephanie

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Kymmy,

You are the best sister ever and when I'm away from you I miss you deeply. You are the yin to my yang, the ketchup to my burger, the TP to my tush (and both you and I know that that means a lot since I use a shitton of toilet paper), the sunshine to my sunny day, the sis- to my -ter...I MISS YOU!

And you're the only one that makes me laugh until I have to pee my pants. And I would drive three hours home if it meant we could take a trip to the grocery for a midnight snack.

(insert many other mushy statements here)... I love you!

Love, (Always),
Moe

Letter Number Forty-Nine.

Dear Super Tuesday,

If I had a penis, I would’ve woken up with morning wood today.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. And I would be poking you lovingly in the back right about now.

Letter Number Forty-Eight.

Dear Baby Penguin And Baby Sea Turtle,

Which one of you is cuter? I cannot very well tell.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Forty-Seven.

Dear Mittens With String Attached So They Hang In Your Coat Sleeves And You Don't Lose Them,

I would seriously consider shanking someone if it meant you would suddenly be available in adult sizes.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Preferably with knitted snowflakes on them, woo!

Letter Number Forty-Seven.

Dear Skype,

Why the only time I have to fart badly is when I'm on you? My far-away friends don't want to hear that! Also, I always forget that even though I have headphones on doesn't mean I'm not, basically, on speaker-phone. That plus my computer being a lap-top...not good.

Love,
Kymba

Guest Letter Wednesdays! Number Six: Erikapalooza!

Dear Alejandro Sanz,

How the hell am I supposed to ever meet you and make you fall in love with me if you expect me to pay for getting into your concert/pants?

Love,
Erika

P.S. Please let me know how you feel about any of the following (you must know that your attitudes to any of the following might make or break your chances with me... so I would think very hard if I were you):
- Backyardigans
- Dora
- Leapfrog
- Threesomes
- Banana Split Haagen Daaz

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Bitches,

Just because you have a boyfriend, a vagina, and a personal account at theknot.com does not mean you will be getting married any time soon, so just do us a favor and shut the fuck up.

Love,
Erika

P.S. He's never going to propose.

Letter Number Forty-Six.

Dear Do Not Call Registry,

I remember one point at the beginning where I sincerely believed you were going to better my life forever.

You bastard.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Forty-Five.

Dear Future Romantic Partners,

Money does not equal love, but I may require a ten dollar per month minimum.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. This doesn't not include gas money and safe sex supplies.
P.P.S. I mean, buy me a candy bar or something.
P.P.P.S. Dark chocolate.
P.P.P.P.S. I [will in the future when we're together] love you!

Letter Number Forty-Four.

Dear Chain Letter Senders,

Please consider having mercy on people and their valuable internet time. Out there are tons of human beings who are just as ridiculously superstitious as you are, and you appear to have no love for a fellow sufferer. Why not better the world for future generations and label the freaking things “NEVER OPEN THIS. IT IS A STUPID CHAIN LETTER."? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a rule against changing the title of a chain letter. Your puppy won’t die 15,304,495 times if you do it, you could quite possibly get laid sometime in the next fifty-seven years, and maybe, just maybe, all your dreams will come true.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Forty-Three.

Dear Apple Company again,






(Image from apple.com/itunes)
Swing and a miss.

Seriously, I finally get the "new color iPod Nano" email I've been waiting for, and you've completely disregarded letter number twenty-eight! Do you even read this blog?!

Love,
Kymba

P.S. I don't post these letters for fun, you know.