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

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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.

Letter Number Forty-Two.

Dear Shirt Dresses/Shresses,

You may look cute on skinny people, but on us fatties it just looks like maternity wear. Also, I learned in high school fashion class (yeah, bad-ass) that that style makes the short look even stumpier. So thanks all around for the sexy, sexy threads this season.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Nyeh!

Letter Number Forty-One.

Dear American Apparel,

I admire your commitment to exceptional work environments and fair wages.








(Images from store.americanapparel.net)

That said, why isn't it illegal to turn my vajingo into a sweatshop with these gaudy thangs?

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Forty.

Dear Fertile Womens,

Stop passing out your girly hormones like bunches of boxed valentines being tossed into heart-decorated, glitter-infested elementary school shoeboxes.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Unless your hormones are like those adorable Snoopy Valentines. Then it's okay.

Letter Number Thirty-Nine.

Dear Wireless Internet,

You spoil me. You really do.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Thirty-Eight.

Dear Mint And Chocolate,

Sometimes I feel that you were just meant to be together, like best friends from next door to one another who didn't know if they wanted to take it to the next level because they thought it would be awkward and they totally valued the friendship that they had cultivated for many years, but then one night they were chatting on the Internet, and one of them had a fight with their step-dad again, and needed a shoulder to cry on so they came over and after wiping the tears from that one’s eyes, the other kissed that one ever so softly. This, of course, became a make-out session of epic proportions. But then they got scared and barely looked at each other the next day at school in-between classes, until afterwards when they both surprisingly ended up in the park at the sandbox where they first met, and they talked it out and confessed their undying love for one another and then got married and did it a lot.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Love them Thin Mints, man.

Guest Letter Wednesdays! Number Five.

Dear Hot Guy Who Works At La Union,

Can't you just fuckin' humor me for once? Seriously, if I could only tell you how many carnitas I have had to eat just to be able to look at your carnitas...

Love,
Erika

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Dear Boys I Live With,

You guys are awesome. I have a crush on the sheer fact that I live with such great people. That being said, put the fucking seat down after you potty.

Love,
Kate

Letter Number Thirty-Seven.

Dear “Gettin' Jiggy Wit It”,

It is unacceptable for you to be stuck in my head. I realize you think you have the right to rent the empty space up there with your catchy upbeat tempo and endearing children’s chorus, but I’m the landlord! This the end of your lease, you young whippersnapper! Move out now!

Na-na na na na-SCREW YOU.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Thirty-Six.

Dear Panera Bread Employees,

Every time I go to your restaurant, I am seduced into ordering the soup that comes in an enormous sourdough bread bowl. I harbor a massive appreciation for you due to this delicious offering. However, if you forget to ask what side item I would prefer, I think it’s safe to assume I do not want another sourdough roll. I’m already eating my weight in bread – hand over the damn kettle chippies.

Thank you!

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Please don’t be mad. I tip phenomenally.
P.P.S. Wait, you don’t accept tips. Shit.
P.P.P.S. Please don’t spit in my Cheddar Broccoli.

Letter Number Thirty-Five.

Dear Puppies,

Hey there shmoopity poopy lovey dovums shmupplekins aren’t you the cutest loopydimple snuggletushy dah floobyyummies lookatcha cute widdle rumblebumble googlywumwum shmohgodi’mitchywherestheeczemacream.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Thirty-Four.

Dear Thank-You-For-Letting-Me-In-Your-Lane Wave,

Where did you go? We miss you dearly.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Bring holding the door for others with you.

Guest Letter Wednesdays! Number Four.

Dear Guy With A Bumper Sticker On His Car That Had The Stars And Bars With The Words "This Flag Wouldn't Have Left You There" And The PIA/MIA Flag,

Are you implying that had the Confederacy Won the Civil War and then been entangled in Vietnam, they wouldn't have left you behind? How does that even make sense? I can't begin to comprehend the fevered logic that linked a Confederate victory to not being captured by the Vietcong. Also, you're from Delaware and while they used to be a slave state, they stayed in the Union and are definitely a blue state now so maybe you should move your ass down to Alabama or something.

Peace,
David

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Dear Unseasonably Warm Weather,

I do worry about global warming, but it was still really, really nice to step outside today and not have my first thought be "Shit, I am going to die of frostbite." I was able to clean out my trunk and take a walk today! Thanks!

Love,
Kate

P.S. I don't suppose you could make that happen on NC's move-in day, too? Maybe? I'd really appreciate it. I might even bake you cookies.

Letter Number Thirty-Three.

Dear Google,

If you would kindly remove the following links from my name search results, I would love you forever and possibly show you my breasts:

1. Photo of Jamie and I as the Dick in a Box guys in that article stating the Gender Bend is all about cock socks and humping.
2. Looking like a drunk in the "Beer Lovers" club on CouchSurfing.com.
3. That time Jamie quoted me saying “That really bugs me” about a partial-birth abortion debate by the Supreme Court alone (for the record, I had literally been awake all of two minutes when that happened).
4. This blag, amazingly fantastic though it may be (it's meant for word-of-pin, dangit!).

I mean, I was never going to run for president, but somewhere and someday I might want a more professional job. Of course, that boss is eventually going to realize I'm a penis-in-a-box totin', classy beer lovin', completely incoherent peenie-wenis. I just want him/her/them/undecided to find out the fun and exciting way!

And then they can have a blog pin. Yeesh.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Thirty-Two.

Dear Series Of "Express Lane's Closed" Bars,

My desire to run into you is directly proportional to the time my driving record has been spotless, which continues to grow even as I'm writing this.

You will be mine. Oh, yes, you will be mine.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Thirty-One.

Dear Real-Life Friends,

If you consider the following equation the next time we talk and I say I will be somewhere, perhaps I will seem less irresponsible, and you more informed:

Ka= 2(Kt) + 15

where Kt is the amount of time, in minutes, Kym says it will be until she arrives, and Ka is the actual time it will take her to put on a pair of pants (and, real-life friends, you know pantslessness is always the main issue) and get over there. Example:

Friend: You wanna come over for Haagen-Daaz Banana Split Ice Cream?
Kym: Yeah, dude, I’ll totally be there in 20 minutes! [insert allusion to lack of pants here]

Ka= 2(20)+15= 55 minutes until Kym actually arrives at set destination. What a stinky hoochie. But, hey, now you have fair warning, right?

Love,
Kymba

P.S.

Letter Number Thirty.

Dear Tranny Bois,

STOP CONFUSING ME AND MY FRAGILE SEXUALITY WITH YOUR INFERNAL ANDROGYNOUS HOTPANTSERY!!!

Love,
Kymba

Guest Letter Wednesdays! Number Three.

Dear Pillow,

Sorry I have drooled on you.

Love,
Monie

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Dear Adulthood,

I know, I know, you're supposed to be great. And I'm supposed to be excited for your possibility. But honestly, you can fuck off. I like sleeping till noon and wearing footie pjs and if you have a problem with that then deal, cause soon I'll be too drunk to care.

Love,
AnnaMalia

P.S. Rent, you too buddy.

Letter Number Twenty-Nine.

Dear 2008,

Just so you know: If you're going to fuck me like 2007, let's at least have some foreplay first.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Also, you'd better be hung.