I still find it hilarious that you think I travel a lot for work (guess I really never am home). While I appreciate your gracious offer to mow my lawn for $40 a week, it took everything in me not to laugh in your face. What kind of ganja are you smoking?
Dear Squeezable Applesauce pouches,
I realize it may be a little odd that anyone over the age of 24 months eats you. But you really are a pretty handy snack. Overpriced, for sure, but delicious.
Dear hipster from the Food Truck Fest on Friday night,
Where in the WORLD did you get your dinosaur embroidered pants? I'm beyond envious.
Oh hey, you discovered the blog. Hope you enjoyed seeing your face plastered on it. My followers love you already (that's code for dont F this up).
Should I stop right now and question what my life has become if I am addressing Pabst directly? Anyways, Dear Pabby... thanks for becoming my go-to mixer. I don't know how you do it, but you sure do make vodka even tastier.
I would totally cheat on you with Marc. I'm sorry but his chrono's are growing on me. I was once a dedicated MK girl, but times are a'changin.
It's funny, before I bought my house I had all these visions of frolicking in gorgeous gardens I tended. (go ahead, pause and reread that)
Who has time for that? I can't even remember to water plants that sit on a windowsill directly above my kitchen sink. Sorry I mass-murdered all of you.
Dear Adam Levine,
Hi. I miss you in my life on Mondays. That's all
I want to think that you were carrying around a shotglass saying DRINK DRINK last night simply because it seemed to be a small-person-sized cup to you, not because of something you picked up from your Aunt Chelsea. Please don't prove me wrong.