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