Dearest darlingest room,

I cleaned you the other day. And I'm really concerned about some of the things I found.

Such as:

broken glass

half-melted small plastic dog

can of paint

$5 worth of nickels (only concerned about this because NO ONE LIKES NICKELS)

stack of paper stuck together with some sort of red sticky liquid

bottles of water with stuff growing in them

chewed guitar picks

3 halfs of different pairs of head phones

 like, 20 cat food cans with moldy food in them

In short, room, I think you're a hoarder. And you need counseling.

We can work through this, room. We really can.

Love,

Felicity

Dear Hot Pockets,

Why do you never cook right?

Always too hot on the side, and then the middle is like ice.

Either that or I cook you too long and you explode, making my microwave totally disgusting.

It really upsets me, Hot Pocket. It hurts my feelings that you don't want to cook properly so I can eat you.

It makes me feel bad about my Hot Pocket eating abilities.

I wish we could get along, Hot Pocket.

Maybe we need a counseling session. How does Tuesday sound?

With unreturned love,

Felicity

Dear Ceramcoat makers,

 

Who thought it was a good idea to name a paint "Santa's Flesh"?

Do you know how creepy that is?

You know who the target audience for that paint would be?

Cannibals. Cannibals with a Christmas fetish.

Because no one wants to say that their paint is called "Santa's Flesh" except for cannibals with a Christmas fetish.

That's an extremely small demographic, Ceramcoat.

With More Concern than I had for MLCG,

Felicity

Dear "Must Love Cats" Guy,

You will now be refereed to as MLCG.

MLCG, is this what you want with your life? 

To go around the country, meeting crazy cat people and their cats and WRITING SONGS ABOUT IT?

Okay, it probably is. Because you LOVE cats. You ducking love cats. A bit too much.

I mean, I understand. Cats are fantastic animals.

But you're creepy. You're wicked creepy.

When I see your show, I just sit there gaping for a while.

Once your show is gone, you'll just have your money and your cats.

And you'll be a creepy, crazy, rich cat guy.

Is that what you want?

Who am I kidding? Of course it is.

With concern,

Felicity

Dear mouth,

You taste like onions.

My breath, smells like onions.

I hate onions.

I haven't had any onions, I had yogurt.

WHAT THE DUCK?

Confusably,

Felicity

Dear Script Frenzy,

I'm sorry that I haven't even started on you.

I was really motivated to do it... before I started to write.

I don't even have a plot.

So, unfortunately, I will say sorry in advance for not finishing you.

Love,

 Felicity

My dear ukulele,

You are an amazing instrument.
I am sorry that I named you Edward Cullen.
But, seriously, it fits. Just like him, you're sparkly, incredibly gay, and most people laugh at you.
Also, I'm sorry that you have a scratch from Olivia making you fall. Don't blame her. Actually, blame her. It's her fault.
I'm also sorry that there's a Cheerio inside of you and Sharpie on your tuning pegs.
That's my fault, but you can still blame Olivia.
I love you. I really do.
Sincerely,
Felicity