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?