Letter Number Two-Hundred Fourteen.

Dear Chocolate Yogurt,

Ew.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Two-Hundred Thirteen.

Dear iTunes Genius,

YOU'RE A RACIST.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Two-Hundred Twelve.

Dear Drunk Self,

You didn't even drink that much when you wrote me that letter, and I STILL have no recollection of you writing it.

But point taken.

Love,
Sober Self

Letter Number Two-Hundred Eleven.

Dear Sober Self,

You are a fucking talented artist. Stop being such a pansy bitch. You piss me off sometimes with your wussiness and self-deprecation. Drink a beer and stop being a scaredy ass.

Love,
Drunk Self

Letter Number Two-Hundred Ten.

Dear Tumblarity,

I promised myself I wouldn't give a crap about you...so why did I just refresh the page I was looking at ten minutes ago to see if you went up?

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Two-Hundred Nine.

Dear Hipsters Who Claim Not To Be Hipsters,

You're a hipster. How can you look, talk, walk, and act like a fucking hipster and have the gall to claim you're simply an artist, aspiring anarchist, or overzealous neckerchief aficionado? Congratulations on perfecting the "I don't give a shit about anything, not even my blatant poserness" facial expression, though.

Please let me choke you.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Two-Hundred Eight.

Dear Tea Tree Australian Chewing Sticks,

Giving myself multiple voluntary splinters in my tongue sure makes me feel cool! I can't believe I had forgotten why I bought you last time!

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Two-Hundred Seven.

Dear CAPTCHAs,

As time goes on, I find it harder and harder to figure you out. Either people are starting to make you WAY too complicated, or I'm becoming a computer bot...I'm scared.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Two-Hundred Six.

Dear Hoobastank,

When you sell out to DENNY'S, maybe it's time to throw in the towel.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. I mean, "hooburrito"? REALLY?

Letter Number Two-Hundred Five.

Dear Neopets,

My only lasting emotion from you is a perpetual desire for omelettes. Especially ones with cheese and onion.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Two-Hundred Four.

Dear Post Office,

I'm sorry what my horrible, selfish online letter-writing is doing to your business! I never meant to hurt you, honest! I think you are great, and not just because part of me really wants to be a mail carrier. Well, that's partly it.

Therefore, in April I am going to commit to writing and sending one real-life letter for each electronic letter written.

I love you, man!

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Two-Hundred Three.

Dear "My Top 5 Beers" Participators On Facebook,

Putting "Fat Tire" as one of your favorite beers does not make up for the fact that your other four have the words "Bud", "Miller", "Lite", or some combination thereof, in them.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Two-Hundred Two.

Dear Joaquin Phoenix,

I don't like celebrity gossip...

...but what the fuck happened to you, buddy?


Besides lots and lots of drugs...


...already got that one.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Two-Hundred One.

Dear Oh!s,

The way you cut the roof of my mouth and make it swell is a small price to pay for your wonderfully crunchy deliciousness

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number Two-Hundred.

Dear Vagina,

You are being unreasonable.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Ninety-Nine.

Dear Patchwork Shorts,

As the weather gets nicer and nicer, I can't help but wonder: ARE YOU OUT OF STYLE YET?!

Love,
Kymba

P.S. The past two summers have exuded some definite lame-itude due to your existence.
P.P.S. Don't even bring up those patchwork panties I saw once. Holy frick.

Letter Number One-Hundred Ninety-Eight.

Dear Shia LeBeouf,

No matter how much stubble you attempt to grow, or how many action movies you're in...you will never look not-twelve-years-old.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Ninety-Seven.

Dear Webcomics,

Reading your early updates before going to bed is giving me very little reason to get up in the morning. :(

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Ninety-Six.

Dear Hippies,

I understand that you strongly relate to the independent, non-conformist mindset of the cat, especially ones that roam the outdoors starting scratchfests with those bastard pro-corporate animals in your yard, and come home with their prance of superiority to the organic food you bestow upon it in your co-op style housing...

...but I wanna live there too.

...freakin' allergies.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Ninety-Five.

Dear Mint Chocolate-Covered Cashews,

I wasn't sure at first...but YES. YES.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Ninety-Four.

Dear Ugly (Being It, Not Wearing It),

I wish you were "in".

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Ninety-Three.

Dear Year-Old Growler I Never Cleaned Out Sitting In The Corner,

Ruh-roh...

Love,
Kymba

Guest Letter Wednesdays! Number Twenty-Three: (t)WOO-FER WEDNESDAY!

Dear One Panel Comics,

Your simplicity is what makes you so brilliant and funny. Your syntax is that rare bridge where real speak meets internet speak and where metaphor gets translated into its purest form of humor: the short, spunky, mental image. So in an attempt to be as brief as you are: hey thanks. you're great.

Love,
Kate.

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

Dear Kym,

If you make this for me: http://thea-trical.blogspot.com/2009/01/happiest-cylon.html I will play your vagina like a harmonica.

Love,
David

Letter Number One-Hundred Ninety-Two.

Dear YahooMail,

The animated ads on your site are the most obnoxious of any email provider. If I have to see one more person with anatomically impossible fat distribution jiggling wildly while I try to check my "make your man's carrot grow" and "off the lights unleash the terror in your pants" emails, bitches gon' get choked.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Ninety-One.

Dear Hawaiian Shirts With Faded Designs So It Looks Like You're Wearing Your Shirt Inside Out,

Since we're on this Fashion Police trend...yeah, you.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Ninety.

Dear "Anonymous" Woman Who Gave Birth To Octuplets When She Already Has Six Children,

WHY DID YOU NEED FERTILITY TREATMENT WHEN YOU ALREADY HAVE SIX CHILDREN?!

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Eighty-Nine.

Dear Combing Your Eyebrows With Your Thumb And Pinky,

Prepare for a comeback, my good man!

Love,
Kymba

Guest Letter Wednesdays! Number Twenty-Two: David Acts Like He Knooows Me.

Disclaimer: David wrote this letter.

Dear Letters To Crushes,

Kymba Writes A Letter is so much better.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Eighty-Eight.

Dear Halter Vests,

Good shit, man, you're a disgusting design.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. And I'm not just saying that because people with my "condition" look terrible in you.
P.P.S. By "condition", of course, I mean boobs.

Letter Number One-Hundred Eighty-Seven.

Dear People With Never-Ending Creative Inspiration,

Fuck you, your talent, and your muses.

Fuck the inferiority complex you give me...you...big poohead.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Jeph Jacques, this made me think of you.
P.P.S. But I still think you're great.
P.P.P.S. Sowwy.

Letter Number One-Hundred Eighty-Six.

Dear Faux Pockets On Dress Pants and Jackets,

A seemly stitch would do fine, or some type of embellishment, however I simply do not see the merit of giving the illusion of functionality to a piece of clothing. You only serve to upset me when I buy a piece of clothing only to find that there isn't actually a place to store my Chapstick and hoards of prophylactics.

What? Girl gotta get laid.

Love,
Kymba

P.S. Extra kudos to the fools who put pockets in pants and then stitch them up, so they can't be used without being cut open.

Letter Number One-Hundred Eighty-Five.

Dear 2009,









+











= A Freaking Fantabulous Start


Love,
Kymba

P.S. What do you predict in the me-eating-lotsa-cupcakes realm?

Letter Number One-Hundred Eighty-Four.

Dear Facebook (And Third-Parties You've Sold My Information To),

Why, yes, I would like to buy some booty shorts for $7.99! Your marketing strategies and analysis know me so well!

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Eighty-Three.

Dear Couple Who Cropdusted Me At The Track Today,

There is PROTOCOL about this sort of situation which dictates:

Thou Shalt Not Fart Unless The Person Behind Thou On Thy Track Is Half A Lap Away Minimum.

Now, I was only about 30 feet behind you when you violated the sanctity of this holy exercising law, which was just enough time for the offending flatulence to reach its full stink potential. Adding insult to injury was the fact that the few laps before this attack I was doing my darndest to follow said rule for those close behind me.

SO, thanks for both stinking up my space and making it look like I broke this cardinal track rule. Asshats.

Love,
Kymba

Letter Number One-Hundred Eighty-Two.

Dear Wool Yarn,

I don't care how stupid I look wearing goggles and gloves to crochet with you, cuz I'm going to Kick. Your. Ass.

Love,
Kymba