Weekend Letters

Dear Cheesecake Factory,

Thank you for opening up ten minutes from my house. This was a wonderfully kind gesture on your part, and I very much enjoyed half a slice of Snickers Cheesecake last night, and intend to thoroughly enjoy the second half after I mow my friend Jen's lawn. Also, thank you for being $6 a slice, thus ensuring that my ass will not immediately grow to eclipse the sun.

Drool,
Angie

Dear Swimmers/Parents of Swimmers at My University,

I can't imagine whatever school or planet you come from is fully loaded with retards, so why is it that you get stupid when you come here? I know, I know. We have a big pool, this is where you compete or watch your kids compete. And given the fact that you or your offspring know how to dive off shit and open your eyes underwater and tread water and do a myriad of things I'm not currently capable of, I have to assume you're capable of using a parking garage. Why, then, do you show up at mine, and drive like someone replaced your brains with speedos and noseclips? Also, don't walk down the middle of the driving lane. It will be very hard for you to swim after I slam into you with Libby the Toyota Corolla of Justice.

Swimcerely,
Angie

I'm beginning to think my unconscious mind take peyote while I'm sleeping. In the past week, I've dreamed that Jon pissed me off by going to a Thanksgiving pageant in Pennsylvania without me, that I was extorted by a small child who wanted less money than I was offering and treated me like I was stupid, and that my twin and I were househunting in California. (We're not, and not planning to as far as I know. Plus, Adam would probably be pretty pissed.) This is to say nothing of the dream I had about a month ago where David Bowie wanted me to hang out with his daughter so that she would look prettier, and therefore become more famous, in comparison to me. Who knew David Bowie was such a twat?