A Series of Letters to Various Personified Things

Dear Weather,

What the hell, man? Friday nights are my thing. I go out. Nothing too crazy, but I want to go out without needing my wellies, an umbrella, and a rain parka in tow. I need to socialize, to go out among my fellow Bostonians before I become a complete hermit. But this rain makes me want to curl up on my loveseat, eat some popcorn, and watch crappy TV for the sixth night in a row. Knock it off.

Best,
Amy

. . .

Dear Fire Alarm In The Hallway Of My Building,

If you do not stop beeping every fifteen seconds, I am going to lose my mind. I hope you've stopped beeping when I get home, or else I'm going to find you and yank your batteries out. Or perhaps I'll send you to Gitmo to torture the terrorists into confessing their nefarious plans.

But, I must say, at least you're not rats. I have no fear of pulling you off the wall.

Yours,
Amy

. . .

Dear Work Gym,

::heart::

Love,
Amy

. . .

Dear Work-Provided Booze Time This Afternoon,

I very much enjoy working in an environment where I had several people email me mojito recipes for a Friday afternoon celebration of M-named libations.

Yours truly, madly, deeply,
Amy

. . .

Dear Creative Inspiration,

What the eff, man. I used to write all the time. I have piles and piles of angsty stuff I wrote in high school and college. I'm good when I write. Why can't I sit down and focus on writing something that isn't posted on this blog? I can't go to grad school for writing unless someone gives me a big fat scholarship. I can't afford Grub Street. I don't want to be one of those writers who has a whole bunch of talent that's squandered by a fear of putting words to paper.

Don't drive me to drink. More.

Fondly yours,
Amy

. . .

Weather, seriously. Knock it the hell off. I think it's actually snowing. For reals.