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Dear Madeline, I think that toting the fly-swatter outside in hunt of victims makes you officially obsessed with killing bugs. Dear wretched back, I hate you right now, but you’re kind of important, so please start feeling better soon. Dear scale, I absolutely will smash you into a million pieces if you don’t start rewarding my hard work. I promise. Dear self, you MUST stop procrastinating. Dear Phil and Jenn, I hope you’re ready for us to intrude on you. It’s going to be a wild couple of weeks. Dear Jeremy, the whole driving-around-Waco-at-midnight just proves to me that we’re definitely old now. My bedtime is eleven. Max.

 

 

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