Dear Muse—I gave you the day off yesterday, letting you tinker with the pirate story (which consisted of reading it, remembering how much you loved it, tweaking word choices and typos). It was fun, but now I expect you to hit DG3 hard again. Today would be nice.
Dear residents of my neighborhood—Yes, the child at the end of the driveway at 7:20 this morning, doing the cabbage patch in the furry earflap hat is mine. I don’t know what to tell you.
Dear husband’s carotid arteries—We’re leaving soon to have your pictures taken again. I expect you to behave this time. Dudes, I ate turkey bacon for you. You owe me.
Dear writers of The Shield—I’ve been a fairly loyal fan—I even stuck with you when y’all did that Olympics-worthy leap over the shark of the Armenian money train. And you’re doing right by me this season. It’s intense. And now I want one last thing from you—redemption. Vic needs to take a bullet in a final and fatal act of redemption. kthxbai
Dear writers of Crusoe—If I snort in derision much more, I’m going to damage my nasal cavities. After much heated debate, the Tall Kid did the research and determined that, while it’s crazy-highly improbable, it’s not technically impossible that Friday could have whipped out that butterfly knife. But did you have to make the cannibalistic savage speak umpteen languages, have a lovely accent and, apparently, some kind of Rainman-esque mathmetician? And, instead of how he survives, you’ve made the overreaching story question ‘how will he get back to his wife?’. Since you’ll be lucky to finish a season, never mind twenty-eight years, you done screwed up.