Dear salad:
I never want to see you again.

Dear self--if you want buckeyes, go make them. Just do it soon so you can put the dishes in the dishwasher and have them done before dad gets home.

Dear heat wave:
Are you done yet? This is getting old. I wake up and it's too hot and sticky to ride.

Dear body--
Yes, I know that you are capable of reproducing. You don't need to remind me. If you insist, though, I could get the message without the cramps and the back pain and the inability to eat more than a fist-sized serving of anything at a time, and the headaches that result from it. Stop it. It's not like I ever intend to use those parts...