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.