Dear weekend,

God, I couldn't love you more. You are the savior of my limited sanity, a beacon of divine light within the excessive darkness that is second semester senior year. You bring out the best in me -- and by best, I of course mean the more uncouth social behavior that allows me to have one spanking good time. Weekend, without you, I couldn't go on living. If Friday turned into Monday and you weren't there providing two days of sheer bliss and delight, I would literally stab myself through the heart with a rusty can opener. My roommates agree this would be the only logical course of action. Oh man, weekend. I don't even have an extensive enough vocabulary to describe just how much you mean to me. The world. The world plus all seven Harry Potters. The world, all seven Harry Potters and my Disney Princess mug. Now that's gratitude.

Lovingly yours,
G


Dear Trader Joes,

It's the best and the worst thing that you have a vast selection of 2 Buck Chuck type wine. It's the best thing because I am a pauper and though you are like the taj mahal of grocery stores, you still look out for the little guy by providing an affordable way to get my imbibe on. It's like you are everything revolutionary France was not - for which I am eternally grateful. But, here's the thing. You sell cheap wine. You make me a de facto wino. This is not a label I particularly enjoy seeing on myself, but I suppose it's better than "cokehead" or "Lindsay Lohan" (whoops, repitition!). It's like you're encouraging this liver decimating habit called college. You're like a parent in the bleachers at a little league game, and you have signs and banners and oranges for inter-inning energy. I suppose it's nice to have such a cheerleader, but if it wasn't for your incessant support, I probably would have woken up this morning bright-eyed and bushy-tailed rather than wishing for the sweet release of death. Is this or is this not the ultimate catch 22?

With gratitude and regret,
G


Dear Flip-cup,
I need to put an end to this abusive relationship, and quick. It's not healthy for my sanity or my internal organs. But I just can't get away from you! You lure me in with your fun and charm and frivolity, and then you beat me into submission and misery with your never-ending rounds and your inherent competitive nature. You know I can't resist competition. You know I'm a Tonya Harding, but you make me feel like Nancy Kerrigan. I don't love it. And I know I shouldn't come back to you, but I just can't help myself. I'm drawn to you like an alcoholic moth to one of those shots that flame. Why do you do this to me?! All I've ever done is love you. Why do you insist on smacking me around so that I'm left the next day with hefty amounts of emotional bruising? If I didn't love you so much, I'd report you to the authorities.

Conflictedly,
G


Dear Bagel Time,

Thank you. Thank you for being a shining gem of deliciousness and carbohydrates within the otherwise harsh and unforgiving Worcester streets. Thank you for not judging me as I lurch into your parking lot because I can't really drive stick but my roommate has still mislaid her ability to focus her eyes for more than half a second at a time. Thank you for not criticizing me as I stumble through your doors with eyeliner halfway down my face, bedroom hair, and Olsen-twin outfits. Thank you for refraining from commenting on the fact that it takes me seven minutes to count out all the ones I have left over from the bar last night, and on the fact that I am in fact ordering nine bagels at once. With plans to devour them all. And thank you, most emphatically, for making the most delicious, most round, most flavorful bagels that I never thought I would find in this godforsaken state - you truly are a mirage within a culinary desert wasteland.

Eternally yours,
G