The following handwritten letter was just found crumpled up on the toasty sun-baked marble steps of McKinley Hall:

Dear Lisa,

You were right to warn me about wearing a crisscross open mesh cycling outfit on that 8-hour Death Valley charity bike ride benefiting people who make poor choices selecting appropriate outfits for specific athletic events. Not only did I chafe the hell out of my delicate lady taint, but I probably should’ve brought some drinking water instead of an old package of stale saltine crackers (I was like, soo thirsty the whole time). Anyway my back, arms and legs are now painfully sunburned in a chain-link fence type pattern, and that figures since tomorrow I have to wear a red & white polka dotted backless bridesmaids mini dress that’s of course, completely arm bearing. At least I was wearing a helmet or my upper face would’ve burned like the bottom half of my face. I’m now controlling the drooling from the corners of my mouth, but my blistered lips still look like swollen skin balloons.

Gee, can’t wait to take pictures tomorrow,

Kristin

Song of the Day:

Fu Manchu, “Chevy Van”

The following handwritten letter was recently discovered on the cold, but sunny marble steps of McKinley Hall:

Dear Lisa,

Since when is Easter on a Sunday? I finally rented the flick Into the Wild and watched it like three times. Um, that hiker dude gets rescued at the end, right? I was so inspired by cutie Emile Hirsch when he cut up his credit cards and burned his money, that I’ve invested in a rice manufacturing plant (so I’ll never run out) and deleted like a 100 facebook friends to symbolize severing complete ties with the outside world. Speaking of movies, I heard Leonardo DiCaprio might do Titanic II: Jack Dawson’s Spring Break Revenge. This time he’s a struggling baseball player fighting a strong passion to pole dance at a gay underwater men’s club run by loan sharks claiming the Titanic was a staged hoax like Oceanic flight 815 on LOST. Do your socks smell fishy and taste all silty and gritty? Yeah, funny, mine too. Maybe it’s that new Sand & Seagull detergent I bought in coffee cans from that homeless vagrant down at the docks.

“Beachy Clean” my ass!

Kristin

Song of the Day: Final Edition, “Betcha You Can’t Love Just One (Can’t Keep Running Away)”

The following handwritten letter was recently discovered crumpled up and stuck to the icy marble steps of McKinley Hall:

Dear Lisa,

I’m pretty sure space aliens dropped two half-eaten bagels and several pieces of strange notebook paper in my back yard last Wednesday night. The bagels wound up tasting like crusty dog pee and seriously, you can’t rip this paper. It’s un-rippable! Funny too, since I started my exclusive Oreo cookie diet, my shit has turned green and my nipples have shriveled hard and turned black. My guess is that the nonstop Oreo consumption isn’t related (those cookies are just so delicious), but who knows, I’ve been wrong before (ie: popularity of sandpaper thongs and spicy salsa douches). Gut feeling—it’s merely extreme cramping from insane binding constipation.

I find myself asleep lately when I’m not awake late at night,

Kristin

Song of the Day:

El Michels Affair, “Protect Ya Neck”

The following handwritten letter was found crumpled up on the snow-covered steps of McKinley Hall:

Dear Lisa,

Hey girl, can you believe it’s the year 2010? Wow, I can still remember the first time I snuck into your room, rifled through your underwear drawer and put your silk panties to my face and deeply breathed them in like some kind of intoxicating aroma of forbidden sapphic desire. Wha? Huh? What was I saying? Oh yeah, I haven’t seen you since that restraining order expired and I’ve been meaning to ask you if it’s a good idea to continue hardcore tanning three times a week and skin-bleaching twice a week. Because like I’m totally getting spotty results. Maybe it’s that macramé one-piece bathing suit I never take off. Oh I don’t know, maybe it’s just my checkered past.

Hey tell that boner dickhead named Fellatio that he can blow me,

Kristin

Song of the Day:

Black Flag, “You’re Not Evil”

The following handwritten letter was found crumpled up on the seasonably cool marble steps of McKinley Hall:

Dear Lisa,

Swear to god, you can’t share this with anyone! So like last week I had an embarrassing gyno appointment with a new female doc. Wanting to freshen up beforehand, I sort of borrowed some of your expensive vag perfume you keep hidden in your wig case, except I wound up spraying glitter hairspray up my cooch. When she took a peek inside, she said, “Mmm, fancy!” Damn, it must’ve looked like a confetti kaleidoscope exploded inside a sugar wall planetarium. Weird too, because I’d been listening all day to a new Beatles tribute CD to virginity called Lucy In The Sky With Hymens.

My favorite song is “Self-Denial Fields Forever,”

Kristin

Song of the Day:
Robin Thicke, “Sex Therapy”

The following handwritten letter was found this morning on the unseasonably cool marble steps of McKinley Hall:

Dear Lisa,

It just dawned on me that it’s getting darker earlier. Maybe it’s because the sun is setting faster. You know, like that old Elton John song “Don’t Let Your Son Go Down On Me.” Also, I’ve been meaning to ask if you have another copy of that peanut butter & jelly sandwich recipe. I seem to be missing a key ingredient ‘cause when I try to eat two large scoops of peanut butter & jelly cupped in my hands, the sticky mess just smears all over my face. Wait a second–it’s bread, isn’t it? Damn I was actually thinking about a yeast-based, two-sectioned flat barrier that could contain both the peanut butter & the jelly in a sandwich-like capacity.

Strange too, since I’m half of a trio of short order cooks working at the Trapezoid deli,

Kristin

Song of the Day:

James Pants, “Ka$h (Peanut Butter Wolf Remix)”

The following handwritten letter was recently discovered on the rain-soaked marble steps of McKinley Hall:

Dear Lisa,

Holy shit, did you hear Michael Jordan died? And Farrah Jackson too? I mean Michael Fawcett. Wait, who’s that Tonight Show sidekick who died? Oh yeah, Ed McMuffin. And how about the ShamWow guy—I think he was in a plane crash or something. Bad week to be a pop culture icon I guess. Damn girl, all this death is like so depressing ‘cuz it’s summertime yo! Not to be self-centered or anything, (though I drank all your booze, ate all your food and secretly used your Visa card to purchase front row Judas Priest tickets), but I’m in mourning, and I totally deserve personal time to solely focus on an ego-feeding journey of misguided self-gratification. By myself.

MJ: Better than being OJ,

Kristin

Song of the Day:

Marvin Gaye, “Come Live With Me Angel”

The following handwritten letter was recently discovered crumpled on the cool marble steps of McKinley Hall:

Dear Lisa,

Do you think it’s possible to catch swine flu from eating infected mad cow beef patties? How about French kissing sketchy Mexican street food vendors who’ve tested positive for a rare rubella virus strain? Even if they’re all hardcore intravenous drug users? That reminds me, have you tried on Ebola Jeans yet? They’ve got the best ads–“Ebola Jeans–Don’t worry, you’ll fit in them soon enough!” Wait, maybe I misspelled it wrong. Hey did you know that when people age, they get older? Because conversely on the other hand you have to look at the flip side for a different perspective on a new angle. I didn’t.

I’m pretty sure it’s conceivable to catch legionnaires disease from girl scouts,

Kristin

Song of the Day:

Eels, “Fresh Blood”

The following handwritten letter was recently discovered crumpled on the rain-soaked marble steps of McKinley Hall:

Dear Lisa,

I’m not taking your knee jerk reaction to Restless Leg syndrome sitting down, so I’m making a stand. Sorry, but guess I just really need to kick back if you know what I mean since I’ve personally been diagnosed with Irritable Vowel syndrome and Consonant Tourette’s, you mother fucking aaeeiioouu crazy bitch! Wow, damn, I just can’t control myself since I’m apparently boy crazy for girls and I keep forgetting about my yoga class for people with amnesia. Now if I could only remember where the fucking yoga studio is located, I’d take a class. It looks like fun from what I hear. On the bright side, I’ve started dating an introverted finger painter. He’s so autistic!

Lately I’ve been totally bat-shit for guano,

Kristin

Song of the Day:

The Seoul Avenger, “Two Days of Work Part IV”

The following handwritten letter was found yesterday on the blustery marble steps of McKinley Hall:

Dear Lisa,

Like clockwork I overslept again. And wouldn’t you know it—my brown eye has a nasty case of ass conjunctivitis. Well that’s what my proctologist told to me during my last optometrist appointment. Don’t it make my brown eye pink, huh? Damn, I’m like so freaking depressed that Conan O’Brien is moving his show from New York City to California. Now how the fuck am I going to stalk him? Groan, everything’s just really confusing since my unseasonable water retention has caused my brain to swell. Hey at least your tip about using string cheese when you’re out of tampons was aged to perfection.

I never have a clue when my monthly period is going to show up,

Kristin

Song of the Day:

The Mayyors, “Metro”