Or: The Whining Continues
Dear Self,
High stress makes the body fall apart. We down here in the stomach region do not appreciate your twitching. Chill out.
Dear Adored Spousal Unit,
The crockpot chicken that you made was very good; thank you. However, liquid expands when heated. Now the crockpot smells of fried chicken and fried plastic. If this were the first time, I would be more amused. It's not. I bought a new one. Kindly study elementary thermodynamics before using it.
Dear Hellacious State,
Decide: winter or spring? It's slushy. I don't like it. While you're at it, tell me why your drivers know neither Red Means Stop, Yes You, Right Now, nor One Way Streets Mean ONLY One Way, nor Don't Drive 40 On Ice, Moron, nor Yield to Pedestrian In The Fricking Crosswalk Already? Also, if you have a moment, do tell the police to round up a give-a-damn for my neighborhood. We pay our fireplacing taxes too. I've had it with dark streets, gunfire, and muggings. But don't worry, I won't bother you about the Mafia, the way our mayor's embezzling and taking kickbacks, or the gangs that come up from Even More Hellacious City. I've given up.
Dear Experiments,
Would you work twice? In a row? Please? I have made sacrifices and ablutions. I have remade all my solutions; I have scrubbed my tubes in soap, distilled water, ethanol, and MilliQ water. I have added a pinch of eye of newt. I have read through the last ten times I did you, and I have religiously reproduced every detail from the last time you were happy. I have danced beneath the sprinkler heads. I have worked odd hours and early mornings. Please do what you should. I am tired of repeating you, and it is late.
Sincerely yours,
Jenny Fireplacin' Scientist
