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”