Dear Lisa letter flashback 2006

The following handwritten letter was recently discovered crumpled up, then smoothed, then crumpled up again on the grounds of McKinley Hall:

Dear Lisa,

Sayonara from Mild Horses! It’s an ex-Rolling Stones roadie retirement community in Varicose, Florida. It’s total satisfaction except undercover at night I keep having this repeating nightmare that I’m sleepwalking in my sleep over and over, but when I think I’m waking up, I constantly find I’m still sleeping while walking in my sleep–sort of like awake, but still sleeping. I’m a fool to cry, shattered, with mixed emotions, but under my thumb I’m between a rock and a hard place. It’s a right kufuffle I tell ya. Hey, have you seen my Netflix mail-in pap smear? Must’ve dropped it stopped by a cop for smoking crop in flip-flops, be-boppin to hip-hop and doo wop, playing gnip gnop while reading Hop on Pop to some hopped up Senators I met on Facebook. You can’t always get what you want bitch, but all down the line, I’m just a happy midnight rambler.

I’m lost on Lost—did someone find some P-Funk records or stash of Dharma weed yet in the hatch?

Kristin

Song of the Day:

“Inn” Chris Whitley & The Bastard Club

The following handwritten letter was recently found stuck to the ice encrusted marble steps of McKinley Hall:

Dear Lisa,

I just might have a hypochondriac plant allergy to medicinal marijuana that was prescribed by a deranged (but cute!) botanist I met at a nudist snowshoe seminar and my unlicensed gynecologist says I’ve developed a particularly unusual case of chicken head syndrome. Yeah, I don’t know either. It’s like, so cuckoo. So what’s up with that industrial cheap-ass toilet paper you must’ve liberated from a men’s bathroom stall at the stadium? It’s got the slick texture of clear wax paper, but without perforations, softness or special quilting to help poopage cling to it for optimum wiping, plus it’s the size of a giant cheese wheel a drunk Scotsman might chase down a steep back country hill. Anyway, it sucks. Say that reminds me—are you drinking my saliva from the fridge I’ve been storing in water bottles? Damn bitch, you know my salivary glands are dry!

Hey I’m experimenting with pork bedazzles for my poultry needlework exhibit,

Kristin

Song of the Day:

The Hidden Hand, “For All The Wrong Reasons”

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

Dear Lisa,

I’m like totally digging the new Old Spice industrial strength deodorant, except it makes my pits burn like flesh-eating acid and I smell like a musty sack of jock straps, but at least my elbows no longer have rivers of sweat streaming past them to my hands, which fuck up my dope ball-handling skills on the playground. No teen spirit here. I’ve also found that farting into my Uggs keeps my hands warm during class, except now my feet are cold without having boots on. I suppose I should get some mittens and then I could transfer them to my feet. Or whatever. I’m just not thinking straight since my freak obsession with The Hills has spun out of control. I’m blinded with irrational rage because Heidi married that stupid fuckwad Spencer, plus I’m slowly getting the sneaking suspicion that everyone’s jobs are fake. Seriously, these girls shouldn’t even be driving.

“You are tearing me apart, Lisa!”

Kristin

Song of the Day:

Ice-T, “Rhyme Syndicate”

The following letter was found crumpled among the windswept leaves on the hallowed grounds of McKinley Hall:

Dear Lisa,

Your youthful exuberance is getting old. I’d freaking slap you myself, but unfortunately I burned my hands trying to light a fart at a self-serve gas station last week. Who knew those spicy tacos would kick in during one of my psychopathic drug-induced paranoia attacks? You know how it is. Anyway, how’s your indoor plumbing? Flowing? Getting the pipes cleaned if you know what I mean? No seriously, I hope the bathroom remodeling contractor isn’t screwing you over. Why? What were you thinking? Hey is it possible to catch legionnaire’s disease from over stretching longus/adductor groups when the middle third of the linea aspera is innervated by the obtruator nerve of the femoral triangle? Because lately all my cat does is sit around crocheting and listening to Steely Dan and like, I’m like mega concerned.

My physiatrist says he’s going to write a book about me,

Kristin

Song of the Day:

Lady Dottie and the Diamonds, “I Ain’t Mad Atch Ya”

The following handwritten letter was recently discovered among the fall leaves on the marble steps of McKinley Hall:

Dear Lisa,

I think I’m going to go this Halloween as either a bitchy fashionista slumming in a pair of saggy ass sweats and stretched out granny panties and I’ll tie the whole ensem together with a White Russian-stained bathrobe. Or maybe I’ll glue my mouth shut and go as an armless prostitute locked in a crude medieval armor chastity belt I liberated from an Amsterdam sex museum last month. Now of course there’s the sublime irony that no one will get my costume, but it’d be a huge personal accomplishment to drink with my feet all night. I’d still have keep both my real arms attached to my body though (my doctor says amputation is rather foolish for a Halloween costume), so I would try to disguise my arms to appear like I don’t actually have any arms. Ya know, I heard Napoleon kept his armies in his sleevies. Hmm, maybe I could do that. Wow, isn’t it like so weird that I simultaneously think of random stuff at completely different times?

Wrapping my feet in your medicated acne facial towels helps my swamp-foot problem,

Kristin

Song of the Day:

Pudding Snack Chaos, “Bill Cosby Gangsta Rap”

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

Dear Lisa,

Oh my god, I’m so freaking sick. I knew I shouldn’t have licked the turnstiles at Grand Central Station and stuck my bare eyeballs on infected needles left behind from junkie prostitutes, but shit girl, I just couldn’t help myself. So now I’ve been leaking this putrid, greenish-yellow mucus out of my chaffed nose and have hocked-up tons of sticky gelatinous phlegm balls, which of course I’ve been depositing in the lone margarine container in the fridge. Uh, I told you that before, right? Because I know about your experimental all-margarine and saltine crackers diet. Only gained six pounds and a repulsive case of snot scabies, huh? Good for you! And yeah, sorry about the microwave. I thought you had one of those new Energy Star fuckulicious microwaves that can melt anvils and heat up magnetized tin foil balls made of steel iron ore. Guess not.

Is your ferret shitting in my socks again? Oh right, he died months ago. What gives?

Kristin

Song of the Day:

The Kooks, “Come On Down”

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

Dear Lisa,

Hey did you know the Olympics are on? You probably haven’t heard of him, but there’s this hot swimmer dude named Michael Phelps that I have a total crush on, so I’ve been sending him tons of sexually inappropriate text messages. At breakfast, I’d gladly lick three fried egg cheese sandwiches with tomatoes, lettuce, onions and mayonnaise; three chocolate-chip pancakes, a five-egg omelet, three slices of French toast, a bowl of grits and two cups of coffee off his ripped abs. Then at lunch, I’d eat pound of enriched pasta and two large ham and cheese sandwiches off his taut, muscled ass, and don’t get me started about dinner, when I’d slurp off another pound of pasta (with carbonara sauce) and a large cheese pizza off his gold medal dorsal fin.

Whew, Phelps gets me wet, strokes it hard and stays in lane between my buoys, baby,

Kristin

Song of the Day:

Kraak & Smaak, “Squeeze Me”

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

Dear Lisa,

Hey girl, I hope you don’t mind, but I borrowed your lavender scented aromatherapy insoles for my shoes and damn, it’s like a flower garden shit all over my feet. Oh yeah, something else you should probably be aware of is that I sort of accidentally implicated you in a grisly double homicide by sending damning manufactured evidence to FBI crime scene investigators. Sorry, my bad, but those detectives were so darn cute! I just had to see them again. Anyway, the Feds just need to do a thorough body cavity search and impregnate you with the sperm from a mysterious lizard man, and boom, just like that you’re off the hook for the murders.

My ass acne is coming back nicely thanks to spray-on Rash in a Can,

Kristin

Song of the Day:

Rosebud, “Have a Cigar”

The following handwritten letter was recently discovered crumpled up on the summer steps of McKinley Hall:

Dear Lisa,

Remember when you explicitly screamed that I shouldn’t under any circumstances put that rickety homemade tank containing thousands of Mexican jumping spiders in your room while you were away at fashionista camp? Yeah well, uh, I might have completely accidentally left the tank on your bed while I was out shopping for an escape-proof tank and like now all the spiders are totally gone. Don’t worry—I got a couple dozen of them back, so like, that’s promising. The rest are probably just hiding in your mattress waiting to feast on human blood. You know, statistics show that the average sleeping person unknowingly eats like seven spiders a year anyway.

Oh damn, is it the 132nd or 133rd spider bite that causes blind delirium and uncontrollable bowels?

Kristin

Song of the Day:

The Karminsky Experience, “Departures”

The following handwritten letter was recently found on the steps of McKinley Hall:

Dear Lisa,

I’m still trying to rhyme ‘homicidal maniac’ with something sexy for that Tampax songwriting contest. I’m also struggling to rhyme ‘rape kit’ in a ballad about a long-distance relationship that turns into forbidden ‘Ain’t no mountain high enough’ passion in pre-1941 Yugoslavia, when Croats, Slovenes and the Kingdom of Serbs lived in an uneasy, but copasetic peace. Or wait, maybe I was excited to hear about Heidi Montag’s clothing line (which I must put on my body), or it was her intention to record a CD. Finally, a once-unknown pseudo-celebrity starring in a partially scripted reality program can record a decent Christian album. Anyway, if I win the Tampax gig, I get a complete kitchen remodeling makeover! Which is awesome! If I, uh…had a kitchen. Huh. I don’t even have a house, let alone an apartment. Hmm, wow, starting to think it was foolish to enter if I didn’t actually have a kitchen.

Damn, I’ll probably never get that non-refundable $25 entry fee back,

Kristin

Song of the Day:

Utah Phillips & Ani DiFranco, “Bridges”