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Dear Susannah, when I ask you to clean up your bedroom that doesn’t mean stack everything in a huge (but neat) pile in the corner. It also doesn’t mean cram everything in the closet and hope that it doesn’t fall on my head when I open it. You’re killing me, smalls. Dear Wal-Mart (and every other grocery store), enough with the price increases. Next week you’ll probably ask for my firstborn in exchange for a couple of cans of veggies and beans. (But you’ll probably give her back when you find out how she cleans her room.) Dear Dave, when you start your new job for Facebook please inform them that I hate the new timeline. Dear self, next time you decide to forget how old you are, it’d be wise to forget in the other direction. Now you’re a whole year older than you thought. {insert Gollum voiceover here} Not good, precious, not good at all.
P.S. Dear mom, I remember when you forgot how old you were. I thought you were crazy. Now I know it’s true.

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