dear the bird and the bee pandora station, how do you know me so well? you played “kiss me”, “there she goes” , and you know that i secretly, and unironically like matchbox twenty and sugar ray? i think if it was possible to marry an internet radio station, i would’ve married you real hard by now. because who wouldn’t want to put a ring on a station that plays “follow you down”?
dear future man friend, just a quick note. if we’re already on the subject of marrying things real hard, i’ll be a puddle of estrogen and happiness and thoughts of flowers if you somehow find covers of hall and oates or the bee gees that i’ve never heard. i feel like i’ve found all of them. just a hint, if you find a cover of “how deep is your love?” played on a string quartet (and yes, i’ve heard the bird and the bee cover of it), you will get a baker’s dozen of brownie points (seewhatididthere?)
dear coconut water, why are you so popular? you taste like nasty sauce. water that has had off-brand cereal soaked in it. i don’t get why girls in yoga pants love you so much.
dear non-fiction creative writing class, i’m sorry i’ve been “that girl” this whole semester long. you know the type. right arm always in a flexed position due to hand-raising to give her opinion all the freaking time. doubling all the paper minimums on the pieces you have to read and critique for me. just being grossly nerdy in general. actually, no. i’m not sorry. i’ve never been the “writing 6.5 pages for a 7 page paper min.” kind of lady anyways. so, yeah. you guys can deal. i’m just going to sit off in the corner and clean my glasses.
dear bras, ahem, sports bras. after this feminist paper on the play lysistrata (which is sooooo good, by the way) i have to write this week, i wouldn’t be surprised if i started burning you all, stopped shaving my legs
(oh wait, i already do this), and started tossing around phrases like “gender construct” casually in conversation. help?
dear world’s end, i kind of want to live near you forever. i’d spend my days lounging on your various stretches of grass. i’d pack a lot of picnics. i’d have at least ten bernese mountain dogs. and i’d probably start a magical dog municipality of sorts, and become queen of it. okay, i’ve thought about this a lot. i just really like you, okay?
dear shins, i am so so so sorry for the mistreatment you went through last weekend. contra dancing on thursday? salsa dancing on friday? renaissance dancing on saturday? i totally understand the majorly attractive limp i have developed. forgive me?
dear love life, you crack me up. really and truly. from lesbians nearly-proposing to me at train stations. and straight girls telling me they’d date me if i was a dude. to straight boys flinching at my key chain collection. and the fact that i have to carry a separate purse for just my keys. to people not believing my stories about my dating life. stay weird, love life. it’s like my dating life is a game of mad libs done by a group of drunks, their favorite words being “poop” and “rashes”. thanks for never getting boring.