I know that the tiny letter trope has been adopted by internet culture, meaning that one can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a tiny letter penned, nay typed, by some snarky soul on the web. Anyway, I don’t care. I’m going to write a bunch of tiny letters.
Deal With It,
Dear Drug Addicts,
Thanks for making it really hard to get one’s hands on the really good cough syrup that actually works, and that knocks one out nicely for a beautiful night’s sleep.
I want to see Cinderella. I realize that you have barely forgiven me for taking you to see Into The Woods lo those many months ago, but I don’t think there is singing in this one. And there’s no witch. Just Cate Blanchett and we like her. Anyway, give it some thought.
Did you see it when Jack lobbed his half-eaten blueberry Greek yogurt over the fence from the backyard and onto the roof of Dutch’s car this afternoon? It was rad.
We poop in the potty.
*opens a new tub of Clorox wipes*
Dear Neil Gaiman,
You’re weird. But I like you anyway.
Dear Youngest Son,
I’m using behavior modification techniques on you and you don’t even realize it. Well, maybe you do. Who cares.
This Is Happening (eventually),
You’re a real piece of work.
Thank you for giving birth to and raising the Dutch, whose 40th birthday is this week. I’d be up a creek without him. Really, thank you.
I feel like you should be sung, not read or recited. But I don’t know the melody. Or what Selah means.
Dear Curiosity Museum,
It’s not you that I hate. It’s the 87 billion parents and children inside you. On the bright side, museum, now I know how my children on the spectrum feel when they reach sensory overload. When I visit you, I want to curl up in the corner, cover my ears, and rock back and forth.
I’m not renewing my pass,
Dear Date Night,
I love you.
Dutch and the Mrs.