Nothing much to write about so I'll do My Dear letters because they are oh so much fun to do.
You amuse me. You claim that you hate reality shows. But yet, on Monday, you joined me in watching the finale of The Bachelor. Admit it, it was because of the potential drama, right? You’re a total drama whore.
I’m sorry if I was a little irritated with you while we watched. Yes, it wasn’t nice of me to say that I was going to claw your eyes out if you fast forwarded through the part where Jason was crying. I guess I’m always eager to watch men cry since I don’t see it happen that often. Or maybe it was because Jason reminded me of a hyena when he was leaning over the balcony with his mouth hanging open and his face all contorted like that.
I also apologize for telling you to shut up. But I wanted to hear what Molly was saying when Jason told her that he had to let her go. When she went, "I don't understand," and you shouted, "What's not to understand? He's picking the other chick," I admit, it was rude of me to tell you to shut your trap. I'm just not used to watching things with you. I forget how much you speak during my shows. Which is probably why we don't watch a lot of TV together.
Dear Bachelor Jason,
I cannot believe you. Your new name is Huge Complete Asshole (pronounced Hoo-kah.) I don’t believe you followed your heart. I believe you followed what the producers wanted you to do.
I’m sure you son will be so proud when he’s older and learns what you have done. He can bring you into his school for career day. "This is my Daddy. He was on a reality show and was a huge jackass. And plus, he cried like a hyena."
Dear Melissa (woman that Jason jilted on television),
You have more class than I do. If Jason had dumped me on national television, I’d have kept the ring. I'd have sold it and went shopping. Because shopping makes everything better.
Also, I’d have held up my pinky finger towards the cameras and said, “By the way, this is how big Jason’s penis is.”
Because I’m sorry, no one humiliates me like that and gets away with it.
Dear Girl Scout Cookies,
Please start tasting like sawdust. Please. My thighs can’t take it. My WiiFit is going to yell because it juse senses when I have not eaten well. I somehow managed to eat an entire box of Caramel Delights in less than 24 hours. I don’t even remember doing it. I just know that I went to the box to grab a cookie and there was nothing left.
Sorry Tom, I didn't mean to accuse you of eating my cookies. You're right, it's not nice to throw empty boxes at your head.
Dear Local Girl Scout,
Thank you for selling me that other box of Caramel Delights. Though I did not appreciate you looking at me as though you expected me to return all along. You didn’t even seem shocked when I walked over to your house as you played with your friends and casually asked if you had anymore cookies.
“This is Tommy’s Mom,” you informed your playmates. “She's in love with Girl Scout cookies.”
Your friends gaped at me as though I had put on a Hannah Montana wig and attempted to bellow out a Hannah Montana song.
I almost wanted to explain myself. “Hey kids! I’m not IN LOVE with Girl Scout cookies. I just like them. Very very much. There is a difference, okay?”
Instead I stood there awkwardly while you darted into your house to retrieve another box of Caramel Delights.
I handed over my three dollars and fifty cents a few minutes later and you passed the box to me and said, “Maybe these will last longer, huh?”
Is it me, or are kids growing brattier each year?
I don't know where your Dancing Brobee went. Maybe if you promise not to turn him on 30 times per day he'll return.