Dear 11-year old boys of Cardozo: You are awesome. Thanks for not killing me, even though you tried. Setting off backpacks full of bottle rockets while you are riding crazy skateboard/bike combos with yr three year old bro hanging onto the back wheel? INDEED awesome. Better than those non-existent "national fireworks on the Mall", which no one could see anyways.
Dear IKEA: Why are you holding my kitchen cabinets hostage? What is wrong with you people? Why do we have to take 3 days off of work in order to meet a phantom delivery that probably will never arrive? Why do you make me write long, elaborate letters to your customer service department about how I won't pay your delivery fee until SOMETHING ACTUALLY GETS DELIVERED? At this point, hell, I'll take anything. A can opener. A heart pillow that has arms to hug me with. Whatever, Ikea, just send me something, for the love of all that is holy.
Dear Maurice, public works dude who, this morning, despite several loud beeps and hand gestures, still felt the need to back his giant van up into my poor Honda, which, you might remember, is just returned from 2 1/2 weeks at the body shop from an encounter with a similar jackass on Rt. 66:
I hate you and you can go to hell.