Autumn Lovers Anonymous.

Dear Autumn Cliches,

Now that is enough. It's hard enough trying to get people to take me seriously without trying to throw brown Ugg Boots and grey leggings into the mix. During the months of October and November, it's really all I can do to trudge through the massive, glittery parade of red and orange. You think you can just traipse into my life every year and take over my closet with gloves and pea coats? You think you can make me just sit in a Starbucks with a leather bound journal hoping someone will inquire about my latest poem about leaves? Well? Do you? I'm not stupid, Autumn Cliches. I don't have to take this. I don't--

...That's it, I can't do this. I just can't. 

Hello everyone. My name is Melinda, and I just really, really love fall cliches, alright? I love them. I love them to the depths of my pumpkin spiced soul. And I'm aware of how senseless that is.

Really, Autumn cliches. Have you ever really smelled a pumpkin? And actual, living pumpkin? Do you know what the fragrance is? It smells like squash. Squash! Pumpkins are nothing but orange watermelons, and we know it. A pumpkin is a vegetable and vegetables smell like nothing. But we sniff it alllll up. Pumpkin spice, pumpkin cheesecake, pumpkin candelabra, pumpkin latte, pumpkin everything. It's ridiculous in every sense of the word. But if you stop, for a moment, and ponder it. I mean, really think about it--have you ever tasted anything as delicious as pumpkin pancakes on a rainy Saturday morning? Have you ever experienced anything like the aroma of a house on a blustery afternoon after someone has made pumpkin bread? Look me in the eye and tell me you've never smiled after enjoying a pumpkin delicacy.

That's what I thought.

Don't get me started on yoga pants. They are garment of thin, sweat shirty material that barely made it into the day time clothing category. They almost don't even maintain the pocketed right the be called pants. But if you think for a moment that I don't relish in all the delightful yoga pants glory, you would be wrong sir. At any time a person, male or female, could show up at my house unannounced, wearing yoga pants, and would face no judgement because I would answer the door also wearing yoga pants. We could spend the day in yoga pants splendor eating snicker doodles and watching pride and prejudice, giggling into our cinnamon apple cider and putting stupid hats on the dog. You can't do that stuff in July! You can't I tell you!

We live in a harsh society today that frowns upon the love of common things and I tell you, enough is enough. As a woman of the 21st century I insist that I maintain the right to wear my cutest scarf even If it's September and also 80 degrees outside. So what if I built a bonfire for the sole purpose of being able to tell my fellow autumn lovers on facebook? So what if I brag about my new generic burlap, ribbon, mason jar craft on Instagram? Maybe I LIKE being overzealous about my new cornbread recipe?! 

I have a dream that one day my future children will be able to walk down the street crunching leaves and eating their maple flavored desserts without fear of judgement. I long for a generation that embraces cran-boysenberry decorating ideas with enthusiasm. I hold on to the hope that, in another lifetime, I can pin all the sage-y, cinnamony, November-crisp prose all over Pinterest and know that no one will ever insult me over it by asking if I'm Canadian. That's the world I aspire to, Autumn Cliches. That is the future I want to see.

So, no longer. Autumn Cliches. I'm not going to be ashamed. I'm not going to hide the things I really love. And if those things include me, sitting with a laptop in a coffee shop, stoically looking out a window and trying to convince passers by that I'm drinking chai tea and investing in an inspirational blog I never have any intention of writing in, then so be it.

Ardently and Artfully Yours,

Melinda

Calling All Guitar Guys.

Dear Every John Mayer Song That's Ever Been Recorded,
Can we just talk about my general distaste for everything about your personality?
Ok, I know you are involved with a celebrity, and you probably get a lot of hate mail in addition to fan mail. But your outbursts are becoming just ridiculous. It would be one thing if you just sort of existed on your own little indie pop label and people with nothing better to do kind of enjoyed you every now and then. But it doesn't work like that, does it? Ohhhh no. you had to be FAMOUS. And not only famous, but HIPSTER. And people have the gall to listen intently and label you as ART.
I. am. disgusted.
John Mayer songs, you have taken the name of music in vain and that's insulting. This is coming from a girl who calls smooth jazz an abomination and gets unnaturally defensive of Scott Joplin.
Ok, so you can strum out a few non-cliche guitar chords and mix them together. Good for you. Too bad its not the chords that dictate the score. Oh yes, they provide the meat and potatoes. But there's this incredible lack of skeleton to your sound. Ever heard of drums? No, constantly using a djembe doesn't count. There's this thing called percussion and apparently you have no idea what it is. Know how I know that? Because you have the exact same beat as well as the same tempo for every song released. Why, John Mayer Songs? Why?

 Let's not get started on lyrics. Actually, yes. I changed my mind. Let's discuss you're lyrics. You claim to present this deep angsty poetry that touches the deepest part of a person's soul. It's supposed to be soft and easy and lovely. Let's take a look, shall we?

Exhibit A:
"Say what you need to say,
Say what you need to say,
Say what you need to say,
Say what you need to say."

Exhibit B:
"Your body is a wonderland.
Your body is a wonderland, oh yeah.
Your body is a wonderland."

Exhibit C:
So we keep waiting (waiting)
Waiting on the world to change.
We keep on waiting (waiting)
Waiting on the world to change.
It's hard to beat the system
When we're standing at a distance
So we keep on waiting (waiting)
Waiting on the world to change.

Notice anything? I'll help you out. There's one semi poetic phrase in there, thrown in with a verse or two, and then repeated a MILLION TIMES. That's not poetry, lad, that's laziness. Don't misunderstand me, repetitive, rhythmic patterns are a vital part of both music and lyrics. But there is such as thing as too much of a good idea. You know who else used repetitive phrases in his art? Dr. Seuss. And he still managed to do it in an educational manner, rather than an extended form of superbly executed douche-baggery.
You know what you are, John Mayer songs? You're that guy that brings his acoustic guitar to every party he ever attends to make sure the girls are well aware of his deep, sensitive aura. You stand in the corner with the dim lighting, strumming apathetically, and sexily brushing the blonde-dyed brown-dyed black hair out of your eyes while making sure your jeans are tight enough to show off that non existent butt as well as short enough to display one of your chuck taylors that is untied just so. The girls fawn all over your poor, tortured artist soul and I'm willing to bet you get lucky quite a bit.
What, am I wrong?
Didn't think so.

Meanwhile, I'll be over here with my eyebrows raised at you in an expression that says, "Really? We're going to be this immature? Really?"
...
Ok fine, that last part might have been a snub complete with the upturned nose but I'm a little ok with it. When you start putting a little more passion into your work and your listeners, I'll be sure to give your outcome a more sincere listen.
Till then,
--Melinda

A Hypocrite's Decree

Dear Anti Romantic Clever Words and Catch Phrases (let's call you ARCWCP for short),

You've already seen the title so I'm going to skip the disclaimers for now. You've committed some crap and I'm calling you on it.

We all know the one's I'm talking about. Words like "sacred bromance", "friend zone", the dreaded "platonic" horrors. Silly bitter quips such as:

"Bros before hos"

"I'm spending the night with my boyfriends, Ben and Jerry"

"Ovaries before brovaries"

"Haters gon' hate."

and my personal favorite,

"Richard, why don't boys like us?"

Believe me, ARCWCP, you definitely have a place in this world. After all, many of you were born from the intelligent minds kindred to the writers of Parks and Recreation and How I Met Your Mother. Strategies trade, Tweets tweet, laughs travel, ice cream is handed out. You've been warmly welcomed into the American English syntax as well as several entries of urban dictionary and the notebook covers of junior high girls everywhere. I can appreciate that.

What I can't appreciate is the attempted weaponry of such pathetic means.

So many of us are fed up with failed daydreams and romantic disasters that we've looked for any and every excuse to lash out. (Remember that title?) You offer services all too willingly in an attempt to advertise every possible use, and we gladly and foolishly accept. But can I examine something here for a moment? Honestly? Has anyone ever effectively expressed themselves or changed anybody's mind via a cryptic facebook status?

You get us, ARCWCP, and that's great. But come on. I've watched countless boys complain about being left in the "friend zone" with no justification. Ask them. Ask them how many girls they've asked out on a date. That's when you'll get the hesitated "umm....well..." blushy answers. What's actually happened, ARCWCP? They've been left in the friend zone by one, count them, ONE girl and they spend the rest of their precious years blaming their loneliness on all womankind. Guess what? I can't read minds. Ask my friends, I'll bet they'll tell remember they can't read minds either. There's this silly presumption that my thought's don't necessarily revolve around boys 24/7. Do you, a boy, want to date me? Ask me to dinner. Sitting there whining about girls not being attracted and why your incredibly subtle signals didn't whisk her off her feet is only going to transition into a self-fulfilling prophecy of epic proportions. I get that rejection is painful, and I remember standing alone in that realm many times. But do you know what that attitude says to us? Really and truly? We aren't worth the risk, and because of that it's somehow our fault you're unhappy.

But it doesn't condense down into only one gender, ARCWCP. Oh no, that'd be far too easy. Neither sides of the fence have green grass, and this is why. Girls keep a list. Readers have ears and eyes that are perking up at this moment. Yes, a list, and this is what it looks like--subconscious or otherwise. Well meaning youth ministers, motivational speakers, gender studies and movie messages alike have encouraged girls to keep a list of everything they want in a man. Have standards! If you don't, you'll end up with a loser! So ladies have obediently kept a mental or physical list of what they're looking for. In itself that's only natural, but its the game that ruins the board. Ladies, how would you like it if every first impression of you was made by a preconceived list? Why should every characteristic about you be judged instantly by a chart of objective qualities that refuses to take into account any sort of personal judgement? I have news for you. People in general are not one dimensional. You know who counts as people? Men. And just like you, men have had an entire background of experiences, values, and choices. When a girl passes off someone because they don't meet certain criteria and don't look or act similar to Channing Tatum, a girl misses an opportunity to know a person, whole and in 3D. Once we take off the rose colored glasses and forget all the movies we've seen, then our expectations can change. Not diminish--change. My advice? Take the list. Burn it.

See, ARCWCP? Entire attitudes are flying around our media culture and its really just ridiculous. Suddenly people my age are acting like 5 year olds with grubby little hands reaching for candy hearts and fairy tales. We forget that relationships take time, work, cultivation. Risk, disaster, apologies. It's a part of the world we live in, but you've wiped our memories.

She put you back in the friend zone? Dress your wounds, dust yourself off, and free yourself for someone who won't.

He won't pursue you? Dry your tears, wait for someone who will, and until then--have goals that don't have to revolve around someone else.

Maybe, just maybe, if we stop living in a state of being pissed off at each other, healthy relationships can actually blossom somewhere.

Till then, stop screwing with our heads ARCWCP, and stay on Community where you belong.

Sincerely,

Melinda

Compulsions of a Cereal Killer

Dear Oops All Berries Captain Crunch Brand Cereal,

I have to say that you are, in summation, one of the most underwhelming treats I have consumed. I remember back in the day when the crunch berries were the best part of the entire Captain Crunch experience. Much like the treasure hunt of a marshmallow laden bowl of lucky charms, the fun was in wading through the yellow squares to find your berry goodness. After diligent search and milky treks, the spoon reunited with the berry and monstrous joy was to be had.

Not so any more, All Berries. I'm on to you and your foul-mouthed deceit. First of all, how am I supposed to enjoy the thrill of the hunt when none of you are hiding? All of the berries are RIGHT THERE. Not to mention the colors all clash like a synesthete's nightmare (that one's for you, Casye). Red, green, blue, and purple? Come on. That just makes my eyeballs sear back in color wheel induced agony. Not to mention that you don't even taste like the good crunch berries any more. You just taste like normal Captain Crunch, and everyone knows that that's the part of the cereal nobody really wants to eat.

Sorry to say this, All Berries, but I'm going to have to abandon you to the drain and switch to breakfast time's Ole' Reliable: Honey Nut Cheerios. If I were to give you a grade in deliciousness, I would mark your test paper in a bright scarlet F.

Regards,

Melinda

Enemies of the Anatomy.

Dear Ovaries,

Thanks to you, I have officially joined the "retarded ovaries club" at school. No, really. We have one. It's unofficial and maybe a little bit fictional, but I think "retarded ovary syndrome" runs in the tap water at HLG. Just one more way the institution is severely trying to screw me over.

So, in essence, my college probably made you retarded. But I digress.

I really can't deal with retarded ovaries right now, ok? I just can't. I'm under enormous pressure and increasing fear that I'm not going to make it, that I've forgotten something, that I didn't babysit the registrar enough, and they are sitting there waiting with a lit match dangerously close to my diploma. My back muscles are rigid enough, I really just can't handle you making them feel like they are going to rip in half every 6-8 months. That's right. If you keep going all psycho retarded ovaries on me, I might just snap. And then my friends will have to be coaxing me down from the roof of Nun Cook, prying the cold, dead, cabbage patch doll from my hands (that just happens to be on fire) and making sure that I don't eat my hair. And it will be all your fault.

Ok. That's not fair. You can't really help being retarded, what with the probable cysts that are initiating an all out invasion--and being quite rude about it, to boot. You were just doing your job when these uneducated cysts (who probably only got the job because they slept with the office manager) started moving in on your cubicle space. Probably. We're still not sure yet.

And I know you're trying. I know. I'm sorry. But I was always really scared that I would become the old boring cat lady with a mustache. Seriously. The extra eyebrows and slightly darker random upper lip is severely freaking me out, and my readers are probably cringing due to all the excess information. can we try to do something about this? Please?

Thanks.

--Melinda

What is better than this?

Dear Zebra Print Duct Tape:

Holy crap. You are so freaking amazing. Ellen agrees. If I could have a crush on an inanimate object, it would be you. Believe me. I stood in walmart staring for a good 45 seconds.

That is all.

--Melinda

Just as good as a rape whistle.

Dear Semi-Denty black pick up truck:

I know there's probably not a lot you can do about your occupants, and for that, I'm sorry. But could you pass along a short message for me? Basically:

1. If they want to pick up chicks, the Walmart parking lot isn't the place to do it.

2. If they really want my phone number, they should do it in a way that doesn't involve cutting me off on purpose, waving their arms, and thinking its cute.

3. The fact that I'm on my way to a gas station and its 20 degrees outside doesn't really help their case either.

Come to think of it, Semi-Denty Black Pick Up Truck, haven't I seen you before? In fact...weren't you the truck that one guy was in who tried to ask for my number at an intersection in the gritty part of Independence? Yes, I'm certain that was you. I never forget a bumper/grill combo. And come to think of it, I think you were the truck that guy was driving through the Steak N Shake Drive thru. You know, the 27-year-old who called my work an hour later and asked me for a date...when I was sixteen?

That's it truck, I'm on to you. Not only are you a cradle robbing pedophile, but you are also a creepy stalker. I know I'm quite the catch, but subtly following me through my various walks of life is really not the way to get my attention. Maybe had you come earlier and approached me like a gentleman then we could have had a decent relationship, but this is just ridiculous. You can't really blame me for being slightly creeped out by your queer random appearances that always manage to happen in the most ambiguous places that seem like they came be right out of a vintage Hitchcock movie. Or maybe from the Sequel of the Ring. Either way, I don't like the way this is playing out. If you don't leave me alone, I'm going to have to request the use of my Dad's box truck. Or my roommate's tractor. Or my friend Jonathan's family truck. You know, the one that took out a freaking bear in Montana. I don't know what your intentions are, black pick up truck, but due to your strange behavior I'm not afraid to pull out the big guns. I don't have to take this, and if you don't lay off I will be more than happy to use my proverbial vehicle rape whistle.

We'll consider this you're warning, black pick up truck. Grow up, acquire some social skills and stop treating girls like the characters in your star trek fan fiction that you keep in your mother's basement.

Kthxbye.

--Melinda

An Employer's Ultimatum.

Dear Kenmore Dryer-

Ok. I know it's been hard for you. I get that. Not only are you kind of getting on in years, but you have to put up with my roommate never cleaning out the lint basket and an electrical partner that throws an all out self-destructive temper tantrum every time it goes on a spin cycle. I know it isn't easy; its clear by the way you shake anytime you have to work exceptionally hard. Gosh, sending you this letter makes me feel like i'm putting my dog to sleep. But this has to be addressed.

Five hour and a half cycles is LONG ENOUGH. I NEED dry clothes. Not kind of dry clothes, not sopping wet clothes, not almost dry clothes, DRY. CLOTHES. And I need them now. Not tomorrow morning. Not after CSI. Not during the intermission of the Harry Potter marathon. Now. Its not so much that you can't do this, Kenmore dryer, its just that I suspect you are an even worse procrastinator than I am. And considering I recently put off contacts and showering for a week, that's saying something. I know you need breaks, but think about it. Once or twice a week is really not asking that much. Frankly I'm starting to become suspicious of all these "breaks" you've been taking anyway. Have you been smoking, Kenmore dryer? I feel like I've been smelling something lately. And anyway, I can't have a slacker on my watch. I'm not paying you to stand around, dawdle, or do anything that doesn't involve drying my clothes. If you want to get caught up in World of Warcraft or Dungeons and Dragons or Call of Duty or Farmville or something, you're going to have to do it on your own time.

I'm afraid I have no choice but to offer an ultimatum. I don't like it either, and I've tried to be nice. But I don't know what else to do. Either you start effing drying my clothes, or I'm firing your butt and putting you out on the street where you belong with all those other deadbeat appliances. That's right, exactly like in The Brave Little Toaster.

Sincerely,

Melinda.

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.

A Formal Declaration of War.

Dear Skin,

alright skin. enough is enough. This is war.

I know you are genuinely upset that its been cold outside, then hot outside, then cold again. But this is Missouri, sweetie. If you haven't gotten used to bipolar weather after 22 years, there's something wrong with you. as a part of the human anatomy aren't you supposed to be down with all this adapting and evolving stuff? I mean seriously.

But you don't have to throw this all out temper tantrum about it. I know the weather and humidity is less than ideal, but just because I want to shave my legs doesn't mean you get to be all like, "you know what would be really fun? Acting like we're on effing FIRE." Which causes me to have to down an ungodly amount of benadryl and have to sleep it off the rest of the day. Think about who you're affecting here.

I've tried to be nice about it, but apparently its been all for naught. I'm sick of you blaming me for things I can't control, and I'm even sicker of you're excuses. Yea yea, so you have this weird combinational heritage of German and Dutch where all their dainty little wives probably stayed away from the sun or sat in church all day while growing nasty man hair on their legs. Well guess what, skin? this is the 21st century, and I'm not about to act dainty or prudish--so you can kiss that ambition goodbye. You're a Stephens--you need to freaking man up!

So, skin, this is how its going to end. I'm pulling out all the stops. I will continue to launch an all out non scented moisturizer assault on you. There will be Aveeno, non-scented soap, new loofahs and shavers, specialty shaving cream, the works. And you're totally going to be attacked with green tea/tea tree infused lotion, and you are going to LIKE it. You're not going to be able to think only of yourself forever.

You've made me miss church for the last time, ma'am.

INCREDIBLY sincerely,

Melinda

A tribute to meatballs.

Dear really nasty Applebees meatball pasta;

You, sir, are my hero. I sincerely think you've single handedly saved my life. So, I thought a thank-you card was in order.

I hate to air all my dirty laundry here, nasty meatball pasta, but it's necessary to understand why you have been to detrimental to my natural self-life sustaining capabilities. I've had a long, on-going, seriously committed relationship to carbs. Me and carbs went everywhere together. I was convinced that carbs loved me. After all, carbs was always making me feel good, especially when I was down. Carbs always made sure that I was never alone, and ensured that I had enough family time (especially celebrating at Olive Garden or V's). Carbs even paid constant compliments on my sweater choices. But what I didn't know about carbs was that carbs turned out to be a blood-sucking parasite. Oh, sure, carbs knew all the right words to say. Carbs even promised to buy me nice things. But really, carbs just wanted a place to crash at night so that carbs wouldn't have to get a job like every other individual on the planet. Carbs used me, preying on my arteries and lack of gym membership. There was a problem, though.In spite of all this, I was still in love with carbs. I couldn't let him go. I know carbs wasn't doing well now but carbs would get back on his feet eventually, just give him some time! Besides,I just went through a really painful break-up with Taco Bell, I don't think I can take any more heartache like that right now. Oh carbs, please never leave me!

I know. It's a pathetic sight. I would've done anything to stay in that really crappy relationship. I needed carbs for emotional support, even if carbs was a loser who refused to get a job and camped out on my stomach for the next six months. Which, if left to his devices, could cause some serious problems like heart disease and diabetes--I can already feel some of the affects weighing on my joints now and then. It wouldn't surprise me in the least if carbs, while lying in lazy passivity, was actually plotting homicidal tendencies. Luckily, you came along, really nasty meatball pasta from Applebees.

You probably don't remember our meeting. It was pretty brief. Though I was sure Applebees really tried I was not very impressed with your poor quality and lack of cheesy goodness. I snarfed down what I could due to the fact that I was hungry, but our collision with the fates was far from over. On the drive home and hours on into the night, I still felt your oppressive presence. It was like I had swallowed a bunch of really mushy rocks that refused to be digested, accompanied by awful garlic burps that appeared with a vengeance and left a stale taste in my mouth. It's not that i was nauseas, its just that I couldn't get your overwhelming grossness out of my system fast enough. Basically, I feel like I'd be ok with never eating ever again. That's how awful you are.

You persistence truly is incredible: I didn't know you were trying to tell me something until it was almost too late. But thankfully, your pursued me until I stopped and realized that what you were telling me really was for the best. After copiously digesting you for hours, I realized I'd be ok with never eating pasta again. And the chains fell. You helped me realize my abusive relationship with carbs. Now, finally, with your help, I think I have both the sense and the strength to leave carbs for good (excluding wheat and whole grain, of course). You're like the sassy gay friend of meat.

Thank you. Really. I appreciate your radical intervention more than you know.

Cordially,

Melinda

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

Dear Taco Bell,

Let's face it. We both knew this day was coming. Trying to go on would only put even more of a strain on our already climactic relationship. I could try to be more sensitive and skirt more around the real issue, trying to save your feelings, but here's the thing: I believe that you deserve the truth, and avoiding your gaze won't help either of us.

Taco Bell, its over between you and me. I can't see you any longer. I can't tolerate the crack that they obviously put in all your food to make it so wonderfully addicting and self medicating. And everyone knows that you've just been using your tasty burritos to draw me in without me noticing. Well the jig is up, Taco Bell. I know you just want to be with me, and lets be frank: I want to be with you too. But I can't take all this lying and manipulation. And furthermore, my arteries just can't handle any more abuse. They're already severely hurt from my last on-going relationship with pasta (it was really just a bad situation all around).

Not only have you been tastily manipulating me, but you've been affecting my relationship with my friends. I have a severe suspicion that you and Casye have been going on for a long time behind my back. I can't blame her really, you are quite irresistible. But that's besides the point. Anytime we rendezvous together and I want to spend quality time with my friends watching a long movie afterward, you always manage to ruin everything. Methane is deadly in more ways than one, you know.

Before you start making accusations I'm just going to clear the air, here. I've found someone else. His name is Crunchy Delicious Crouton Spinach Salad. He loves me for who I am and treats me like a lady. I mean, what defines a gentlemen more than one who gives you 15% of your daily value of Iron and simultaneously gives you a clean colon? I'm afraid he just fulfills my needs better than you do, Taco Bell.

Therefore, we have no choice but to go our separate ways. Don't be sad, darling. It's me, not you. And really, this is better for everyone. You can now openly pursue your relationship with Casye and shower her with tasty quesadillas. And I can do this thing where I can go jeans shopping and actually find something. I feel we can both become better people from this arrangement.

I'm so sorry it had to end this way. Can we still be friends?

Love always,

Melinda

P.S. Ellen sends her regards.

Here's to Trying New Things.

I have a tendency to write angry letters to things when they are completely ridiculous. So I'm putting them here for yours and my enjoyment, should you choose to enjoy said letters.

That said...well.. Enjoy!