Dear hair-
I know I never fix you. And for that, I am not sorry. I like you the way you are. You are clean and brushed. Okay, fine, you’re clean. Be grateful for what you have and leave me alone. Oh, and sorry for trying to cut you myself the other day. Actually, no I’m not. I’ll probably do it again in a couple weeks.

Dear lips-
I’m sorry I obsessively nervously pick at you. If I could stop, I would. But you gotta admit that green apple chapstick tastes pretty good. I know I wouldn’t have to use chapstick if I’d stop picking at you, but my writing hat and my writing tunes sometimes just aren’t enough.

Dear ass-
Great profile. Excellent shadow. Perfect silhouette. Just. Don’t. Turn. Around. Dude, I totally spelled silhouette right the first time! But for real. Get the fuck up off the floor already.

Dear legs-
You shoulda stopped at the knees. It’s like you tried way too hard up there in the quadravastumagnuslongusfemoris region. Seriously. And what’s with all the jiggling business? Is all that shit really necessary? What the fuck did I ever do to you? Ooohhh…. you’re still pissed about that whole cookie-dough-during-pregnancy debacle. Wait, hasn’t it been like 15 years or something?

Dear boobs-
You fucking rock. You fed my babies. You snagged me a man who puts up with my crazy shit, even though he says “Hellloooooo girls!” in George Takei’s voice every time I take off my shirt. But you gotta admit, I mean, you know, you guys are pretty hot.

Dear stomach-
OH MY HOLY HELL! What the fuck, man? I mean, seriously? What the fuck is that, a road map? Hieroglyphics or some shit? I totally get the pube scar. My junk wasn’t big enough for babies or whatever. That’s fine. But dude, did I really eat that much cookie dough when I was pregnant? Hmmm…. now that I think about it. Yes, yes I did.

In closing, if all you guys could get yourselves all coordinated and on the same page, that would be great. The boobs and the brain can only do so much. The mouth hasn’t stopped running since it learned how and the ears never gave a shit what it had to say to begin with. The eyes draw far too many conclusions and the nose has an extra hole in it. But that’s my own fault.

Love always,
That bitch who treats you like shit.