Why are you so goddamn delicious? I think you are made with equal parts crack, puppies, and baby smell because all those things are awesome AND highly addictive. And I hate you for that. Just a handful of your scrumptiousness has more calories than a Thanksgiving meal with all the trimmings. How is that even possible? I know that every spring, you send out your little army of green sashed bitches to tug at my heart-strings and make me buy more boxes than a single girl could ever need. Oh, just freeze us and save us for later you say. NO! I want to eat you box by box in some Romanesque orgy fashion. I want to gorge on you until I am sick and ready to puke. Having a box in my house that hasn't been eaten yet is like a sex addict having a porn in the DVD player and trying not to watch it. IT CAN'T BE DONE! I also have a bone to pick with you reguarding your recent name changes. Why are Samoa's now called Carmel De-Lites and Tag-A-Longs now called Peanut Butter Patties? I liked the old names. And what happened to the original Girl Scout Shortbread Cookie that was shaped like a Girl Scout's head? Did some Debbie Downer decide it was too morbid to eat a Girl Scout's head? I never liked them anyway, but it's still the principle of the matter. I like tradition. You show a box of them on your website, but they were nowhere to be found on the order form I filled out. Maybe you should look into that and consider bringing all the old stuff back. Don't worry, you could call your cookies "Nut Sack Sweat" and I would still eat them. I love you. I'll be seeing you next spring.
Dear Skanky Guy Who Pulled up Next to Me at a Red Light the Other Day and Said, “What Kind of Car is That?” to Which I Replied, “A Smart Car,” and Then You Asked, “Do You Plug it in?” and I Answered, “No, I Wind it up With a Gigantic Key,” While Pantomiming the Winding of a Gigantic Invisible Key, and You Were All, “Really?” and I Was Like, “No.” And Then You Asked, "Can I Drive It?" and to Your Great Surprise I Was Like, "No!" And Then When You Saw Snuggles in the Passenger Seat, You Queried, “Is That a Pit?” and When I Answered, “Yes,” You Said, “Oh. That’s Tight.” And Then You Were Like, “Are You Single?” and I Was Like, “No.” and You Were All, “Oh. Okay. Have a Nice Evening, Then”: