A communication of mixed feelings.

Dear Amy's cold;

It's really difficult to address this letter to you, considering the fact that I have such mixed emotions about you.

Don't get me wrong, the last thing I would ever want for Amy is to put her through sniffy coughy sinusy heckandgone. But there has been this whole senior, double major, exhausty thing going on as well. I really don't like you, Amy's cold, but I have to give credit where credit's due--out of all of us, you were the only one who could get her to stay in bed and force her to relax. I'm very confused on my opinions of you. You're a sly one, Amy's cold.

But just because the end only kind of justifies the means doesn't excuse your rude behavior. Amy's got it bad enough, what with her schedule that could be compared to a homicidal calender slicing up free time with its "from da' hood" busyness switch blade (ya like that analogy, head cold? do ya? do ya?). Not to mention that her computer screen's gone all angsty eyeliner-y adolescent on us and won't work because it thinks nobody understands it (which is partly true. I'm not a I.T. expert, after all). But you have to pour it on thick what with all the annoying necessity for kleenexes, chugging of fuzzy headed medicine, and extended desire to Twitter (not that that's a bad thing, persay). As cool as it is to have your mommy tuck you in and make you soup when you're in college and make you feel all snuggly inside, we can't be sitting here making our parents worry all the time and have them at risk for possible cardiovascular problematics. Clearly you didn't think this through, Amy's head cold.

Luckily for you I have an endless amount of green tea and Neti Pot packets, and the best sick blanket on this entire planet. Plus, Amy has really cool roommates who help her make marshmallow weddings. You have not won, sir.

As cordially as I can allow myself,

Melinda

An official notice of surrender

Dear Dad's "Worried Voice";

(Not to be confused with his normal voice, which is kind of awesome, mostly due to the fact that it can change a couple of octaves at a second's notice. Also not to be confused with the actual personality or being of Dad, in all its 6 foot 4 inch 210 pound glory).

Alright. We've done this tango before and I always lose without you realizing it. What am I supposed to do? You never let me accomplish my goal which is not surprising because you're a Dad voice that loves me and all that crap. It starts with a phone call, where you try to appear cheery and not tired and I try to avoid telling you how much the school situation sucks right now without actually...you know...lying or anything like that. But then you accost me with peppered questions here and there trying to determine the state of my education and graduation and paperwork and of course that silly nonsense called self preservation where I attempt to keep a tight hold on my sanity. I mean you have to give me credit: I do try as hard as possible because I hate when you show up--it's just that you are far too good at what you do, trying to look out for my well being and all.

We've both grown up in a family of shameless phlegmatics who do all kinds of things to try to protect each other. However we always tend to end up in this messy dance of trying to make life a little easier on each other that my mind becomes twisted quite easily. "Did you have a good day?" It sucked: I was slusheed at lunch, I bombed my Algebra test and I earned a detention when I punched this girl in the face for attempting to pants my brother. But I'm not going to tell you any of this because I don't want you to become anxious. "It was pretty good. yours?" It's not exactly a dishonest lifestyle. Just a weird one. Every family has they're quirks, after all, and its not like this happens every day the exact same way. Here, let me give you another example.

Friday= I receive really crappy news from the education department, slip up, and call mom crying.

Friday evening= You call in you're voice and tell me I should get coffee or ice cream or something, on dad.

Later Friday evening= I got get ice cream for the sole purpose of being able to tell you I got ice cream in order to feel better so you can feel better about me feeling better.

Yes. We are THAT family.

But it's not without justification. After all, I never sleep, and my dad, who comes from a long family line of heart problems and stress malfunctions, works 10 hours a day, doesn't like going on vacation and probably hasn't had a nap in the last ten years. Either way, fine. I'm waving the white flag, Worried Dad Voice. You win this time. But don't get used to it. I was totally serious about marrying a doctor and buying you a lake house. Don't think I won't.

Loooooooooove.

-Melinda

A Simple Request

Dear cute black twirly skirt,

Let's get two things straight:

1. I know November days aren't your favorite.

2. No matter how much you think so, I am not Marilyn Monroe.

I'm quite fond of you, twirly black skirt. And that's saying a lot, because I have a genuine hatred for all skirts in general. No offense, but I'm pretty sure a skirt was an invention concocted by colonial European men trying to figure out how to make their women more submissive. I mean, not to be crass or anything, but how does something as pleasantly breezy as you cause so much awkward buttsweat and chafing? It's a conspiracy. I'm convinced.

Either way, when I'm attempting to cross campus and get to class in a timely manner, that is definitely not the time for you to dance with the wind. seriously. It just makes it really weird for all the rest of us. I know you like being all twirly and everything, but think about my feelings for just a second. I am more than blushing as I clamp your loose ends around my legs and resort to a strange waddle-like sprint to the classroom in order to keep you in the correct arrangement. This predicament cannot be explained to a male professor on the day my presentation is due, especially not if I'm to retain any shred of professionalism I once had.

I'm not asking much. Once we get inside the safe confines of my car or apartment, you can act up all you want. But when I'm amongst normal people who don't want to have to pretend they didn't see any awkward skirt flair ups, I just ask you to behave yourself. And don't try to tell me I can wear shorts underneath you. The only way your delicate material can manage that is if I wear sports shorts--and then everyone is on to me once they hear the slight "swishswish" and can't determine its origin. You gotta work with me, here. Think you can manage staying ladylike for that small amount of time?

KThxbye.

--Melinda

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Dear Chipotle Barbacoa Burrito:

I'm experiencing a sense of longing many mortals on this planet know all too well. All I want to sink my teeth into is tasty, mouth watering, beautiful, MEAT. There's nothing quite like your spicy, tender beef to satisfy a strangely carnivorous craving such as this. I mean, look at you. That giant tortilla with just the right texture. Perfect Latin American cooked rice. Thick, creamy black beans. Just the right amount of spices to make you drool. And not dainty drool, like when you're listening to your specialty "sounds of bacon" soundtrack. I'm talking about the torrential waterfall that comes from falling asleep at your desk and discovering an unpleasant lake pooling around your chin, causing you to subsequently lose traction and accidentally thud your head against the fake-wooden surface. That's the kind of effect you inspire. All wrapped together in a lovely concoction the size of a large, irregularly-shaped fetus. I love you, Chipotle Barbacoa Burrito, and I don't care who knows it.

Our last parting ended in complete heartache and promises of letters that never came. Fall break came and went, homework was painstakingly completed, dinner rushes commenced and faded. Where did the time take us, Chipotle Barbacoa Burrito? We were once so close, so in love...what happened? *sigh* I know. Don't remind me. I had to move to this dreadful island where there isn't a Chipotle or Barnes and Noble in a 90 mile radius. My heart is shattered, Chipotle Barbacoa Burrito. My senses long for you. I will wait for you, Chipotle Barbacoa Burrito. This I solemnly promise, with all of my heartslashstomach.

There's a gaping hole in my gastrointestinal track that only you can fulfill, my love. And no, it isn't an ulcer. That's reserved for when my research papers finally force me to kick the bucket.

Until we meet again...

-Melinda

An invitation of sorts.

Dear Casye's Nose Sore,

We cordially invite you...to leave. seriously. Nobody wants you here. Its not that we're trying to be unkind. it's just that...well...let's start from the beginning.

Casye is stressed enough as it is. She hardly sleeps, she sometimes fights three week chest colds, and she has to put up with a psychopath director that is some wicked cross between a 8th grade mean girl and a pterodactyl 24/7. This particular weekend she was out having a grand but exhausting time attempting to entertain 7-12 grade kids while surviving on junk food and simultaneously caring for their spiritual welfare while under the watchful supervision of a vicious man-eating dinosaur-ish sociopath. Not only that, but she ended the weekend by having to read endless run-on sentences in a blog that shall not be named (but might have something to do with writing letters to cold sores). She didn't even get to sleep on the way home. The last thing she needed was some manic cold sore showing up on the most annoying section of the nose imaginable. Why you gotta be so rude, nose sore? I mean, really.

Plus, you've ruined things for her in the future, what with you showing up in zoom lense photographs that will not deteriorate for another 50 years, if that. Besides, she's got yet another weekend like the one mentioned above and the last thing she needs is a perpetual stigma to kind of need to sneeze, but not really. You've made yourself unforgettable--but not in a good way. fail, nose sore. fail.

We've tried to be kind, nose sore. I can't believe you missed all the subtle hints. obviously the occasional scratch wasn't going to do anything. so we moved to the next step: medication. But obviously the outrageously priced miniscule tube was not enough to get you to notice. You know what you are, nose sore? You're that guy who always wants to order desert at a restaurant when everyone else is full and wants to go home.

And this isn't one of those RomCom weird plots where we ask you to go but actually want you to stay and have coded it in this message somewhere hoping you would be genius and abstract enough to read between the lines. Casye really just doesn't like you. And her life would have a lot better quality if you would be emotionally (well, and physically) attached to someone else.

So really, Nose Sore. This is the last time we're asking politely. Let's not make a scene. The door's where you came in.

Sincerely,

Melinda and Casye

P.S. Kelley has voted you off the island as well.